Small Mercies
by cinnaatheart
Summary: Death touches all, but Bilbo never expected it to hit like THAT. He runs to Erebor to start anew; he expects a dull life for a dull town; what he gets is completely different. His new home is filled with strange occurrences and even stranger people. Modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

Soo this is my first attempt at fanfiction. Originally I had written this prologue for a set of original characters, but I came up with a blank trying to move any further than this. Then I came up with the idea of making this a ff and **bam**, storyline turns up. So far I've got this and half of chapter one.

I'll shut up now so you can read... just know that I own nothing but the clothes on my back and this computer, most of the characters are creations of the lovely Tolkien (as if you didn't know).

**Prologue**

'Look, I know this is a big commitment but _please_…. Just, think about it ok?'

Anaya's voice sounds as if she's already given up on the idea of convincing her audience. Dull eyes consider the pamphlet in front; all shiny pictures and laughing smiles. Everyone there looks so happy- it's enough to make him want to puke. He looks up at his friend, whom he suddenly has decided obviously does not like him that much if this is what she comes up with. Black eyes look back as she takes the glance as a sign of encouragement.

'You know I only want the best for you.' _Not bloody likely. This looks like a form of cruel and unusual torture-_ 'But you've just been so miserable lately.' _Huh, well surprise, surprise-_ 'This could be the pick-me-up that you've been waiting for. Please Bilbo _think_ about this. Don't write it off as just another one of my harebrained schemes.'

Bilbo has to bite his tongue to keep the sharp retort at bay. Instead he settles for staring at his so called closest friend.

'This place has just become so… constricting. Ever since… well…' Anaya struggles for the words then apparently gives up; he's grateful for the small mercy, 'There are too many memories here! Every time I see you it's like you've lost a little bit more of yourself. I just want to help.'

He looks around the room, grudgingly seeing the wisdom in Anaya's words. The tv cabinet hold odd patches of dust- evidence of removed picture frames- reminders of a time he can't bear to remember. Not here. Not now. Sometimes he still stands on shards of glass; further evidence of the bubbling fury from _that day_, pieces of a former life he can't glue back together, not without its missing piece-

Bilbo has to pinch himself to return to the situation at hand. Anaya stares at him expectantly with those eerie black eyes of hers. He sighs, glancing at clenched hands on the tabletop; his own are relaxed, lifeless.

'Fine. We'll move.' It takes too much energy to mutter those three words, it feels.

Anaya utters a small noise of surprise. It's obvious that she didn't expect such a rapid acquiescence and it's put her off her game. She gets like this sometimes, Bilbo knows. Brimming with energy and determination- the whole argument worked out in her head, fitted with deviations and unexpected outbursts in such detail that she's often disappointed when the recipient of her persuasion suddenly and unexpectedly accedes to her demands. When he looks back up, he can see the slightest hint of frustration in his friend's eyes.

He doesn't try to push down the feelings of vindictive pleasure for her reaction.

'You're right, of course.' he goes on, 'I need a change of scenery. There are too many memories here… too fresh. I need an escape.' Bilbo looks back at the glossy brochure resting on the table, lets his hands caress the faces of its smiling models.

'So… have you found a place then?'


	2. Chapter 2: Homeward Bound

I own nothing but the clothes on my back and this computer, and my expansive tea collection; most of the characters are creations of the lovely Tolkien (as if you didn't know).

**Chapter One:** Homeward Bound

* * *

_Cold white tiles and bleached fluorescents. _

_Masked doctors roll away a bed. Surgery doors swing shut._

_Forlorn, he stands alone in the room; his hands don't even tremble._

* * *

The scenery whips past at an unnerving pace. The weeks of rain recently- a mark of the onset of autumn- have painted the landscape a multitude of greens. It makes a pleasant change from the months of bleached browns and gold's; grasses that snap and crunch underfoot.

His driver is friendly, with a potbelly from what is likely to be one too many meat pies and a cheerful, ruddy disposition. Gloriously however, it seems as though- after a few minutes of stilted and awkward pleasantries- he is happy enough to drive in relative silence. Bilbo contents himself to shifting from eyeing the speedo of the delivery truck warily and listening to the quiet roar of the truck, watching idyllic scenes of homesteads and dilapidated barns speed past.

Although, really, it's less of a truck and more of a van. He hasn't taken much with him, only clothes, his tv, computer, stereo and a few pieces of furniture. The rest he sold or thrust onto friends- willing or not. He even gave some things to his dreadful cousin Lobelia, whom he _knows_ has had her eyes on his crockery and silverware for years now. He makes a point not to feel resentment at the look of smug satisfaction on the bint's face when he handed over the box.

It took surprisingly little time to completely uproot himself from the Shire. After weeks of wallowing in painful memories and unwashed clothing (the will to stay indoors and away from _normal_ people had greatly outweighed his need to stay clean), he found that most of the people he knew were simply happy to see him actually _doing something_. That he was leaving them all to start anew in a town several hours from the Shire seemed to be of little concern to them. He made a great effort to ignore the sensation of abandonment that his friends and neighbours elicited on him with their eagerness for him to leave.

Although he has been a miserable sot lately.

Anaya had been a boon of course. She had, as it turned out, already found a charming three-bedroom home on the edges of town, with a magnificent garden and an imposing section of forest that pushed against the back fence. Or at least that was the impression Bilbo had gotten from the photographs she'd thrust upon him as soon as he had agreed. She had also already placed a deposit on the house, out of what he knew to be her not-so-modest amount of savings, which Bilbo thought was quite presumptuous of her. He'd learnt later that it had been a bloke called Gandalf- a friend of her family's apparently- who had recommended the place, and had even weedled it out for her at a _very_ reasonable price. Bilbo suspects there might be something wrong with the house given its ludicrously cheap price… several things, in fact.

Even so, this whole thing marks a new book in his life. He views the following weeks and months of settling into a new world with no small amount of terror, and maybe just the slightest hint of excitement. He's left everything behind for this… well, everything except his ridiculous excuse for a best friend, who cares far too much for him than he gave her credit for. After all, Anaya had agreed to leave her life behind for him too (though granted, she'd be uprooting her life a week later than he).

Time passes suspiciously quickly for all that he's staring blankly into the ridiculously picturesque countryside, and in what feels like the blink of an eye it's suddenly eleven thirty and Bilbo is starving. He pulls the Tupperware box filled with sandwiches (made by that angel of a neighbor Mrs. Gamgee as a parting gift) from the sad looking pack resting at his feet, takes a ham and cheese and on further inspection of the box's contents, offers a corned beef one to Gavin, his driver (it may or may not be his least favorite). Fortunately Gavin doesn't take this as an invitation to start another uncomfortable conversation, and merely thanks him warmly, taking the perfectly de-crusted sandwich from his offering hand.

The truck drifts disconcertingly close to the middle of the road and Bilbo begins to regret his spur-of-the-moment generosity. Especially when he sees how far over the speed limit van seems to be going.

In order to distract himself from Gavin's rather overzealous use of the accelerator, he turned his attention fixedly to his sandwich- also de-crusted (honestly, how did the woman know he still acted like a child and refused to eat his crusts?). In doing so he notices the pamphlet, lying crushed in the bottom of his bag. It's weeks old now; the same one Anaya had laid out determinedly on his kitchen table.

_EREBOR _it says in big shiny letters. On whim he pulls it out, carefully straightening it out on the lid of his lunchbox. It's a real-estate and tourism magazine- although he uses the term 'magazine' very loosely. The cover, underneath its obnoxiously lettered title, shows the obligatory shot of the best scenery the town has to offer, which if he must admit, in this case is pretty damn sweet. A quaint little town seated at the foot of a mountain, wrapped in forest and framed by a spectacular red sunset.

He kind of hopes the photographer got paid good money for that shot. As it is Bilbo wants to pin the picture up on his wall, but that would seem a touch too enthusiastic for his liking.

Especially because he doesn't want Anaya to feel as if she's won…

Turning the crumpled page shows a little blurb about the history of the town and it's at this point that Bilbo realized that he never actually read further than the name Erebor... the town where he plans to live a good deal of life in. The town that he consequently hasn't the faintest clue about.

It's also about this time that Bilbo realizes that he's a little bit of an idiot.

Because honestly, who in their right minds agrees to buy a house in a settlement that they've never even heard of and doesn't know the first thing about it?

_Well, okay Anaya would_, but that girl is in a completely different class of her own, and thus, Bilbo ignores that thought.

Ignoring the very likely conclusion that he is in fact as mad as his closest friend, he turns his attention back to the pamphlet. Erebor, it says, is a charming little town situated at the bottom of Mount Lone. Most of its success comes from mining the rich minerals that lie at the base of the mountain, which has been a major source of income for over two hundred years. Which sounds kind of cool, Bilbo supposes, but he rather hopes they don't expect him to do any of that. He likes his clean clothing thank you very much.

Their town, the shiny paper goes on to say, has recently acquired several vacant properties and a whole section of new estate to build one's 'dream home' in the country's 'most scenic county'- which tells Bilbo that they're looking for rich people to build their holiday homes here, and maybe a few of the less-rich too because we have a lot of empty houses whose previous occupants have died.

They've stuck in a map of the county on the next page. The only one he really recognizes is Rivendell- celebrated for its thriving arts community, and of course the Mirkwood is infamous for its tree-loving hippie community. But otherwise the townships of Rhovanion have fallen under his not so scrupulous radar. He flips his way through the various pictures of real estate, all carefully designed to show only the best bits of each property. Anaya had circled the one she'd decided would be theirs in bright pink…

It seems as though Bilbo had been staring at his future home for quite some time, because by the time Gavin asked- quite politely- for another sandwich, they were driving through incredibly dense forest (which he is quite sure just popped up out of nowhere) and the light had been reduced to a sort of perpetual twilight. Feeling slightly guilty he hadn't offered the driver another one sooner, he fished out a ham and cheese for the man, shiny pamphlet falling forgotten to the floor.

'Where are we?' he asks curiously, 'I don't think I've ever seen a forest quite like this.' It reminded him of that documentary of the rainforest David Attenborough had presented a few years ago.

'The Mirkwood mate.' Gavin says through his mouthful of sandwich, 'Or at least-' he swallows his food, 'That's what the GPS says. Hope we're in bloody Mirkwood anyway, or we're a bloody great bit off-course.'

Bilbo hums in agreement and wordlessly offers him another sandwich.

Now that he takes the time to look, he notices the occasional sign or placard sitting at the side of the road sporting unimaginative lines like 'Save the Earth' or 'Mines are Death.' There's also the occasional 'Protect our Fossils! Use Renewables' thrown in there too. Something makes Bilbo think that the hippies don't have the best of relationships with the people of Erebor.

It takes an hour for the forest to show the slightest hint of thinning, and another half for it to disappear completely.

When it does, the sight steals his breath away.

_So much better than the picture_.

It's been overcast all day, but the sun chose that point to emerge partly from the cloud cover, bathing the valley before him in ethereal white light and lining the clouds in the purest of silver. Everything is _green_ and he can see Laketown (his map oh so helpfully shows him), perched next to the great swelling in the river that must span at least two kilometers before it winds itself into the horizon. It glitters in the sudden sunlight like so many diamonds, though Bilbo figures in normal light it would be a ruddy and unexciting brown.

Further on he can see just the slightest hint of the settlement of Dale, emerald fields spreading out from it every which way like an unevenly cut gem, rimmed in forest (calmer and less imposing than the Mirkwood) that heads to the north; a slow and steady march of trees, drawing his eyes onto the Pièce de résistance.

The Mountain.

'Cause really, that great monolith of rock takes the cake.

It erupts from the valley in a jagged, conic mass, towering above all with its commanding black stone. The forest wreaths it in lustrous jade but he can certainly see where the name came from. There are no hints of a swell in the land (except for maybe Dale) for miles around and the Mountain gives off a distinct air of loneliness that tugs at Bilbo's heartstrings. The silent watcher of the world, with nowhere to turn to hide from this awful world filled with death and trage-

Bilbo stops himself from going any further. Maudlin thoughts are for the confines of his home, curled into a couch and clutching at a steaming mug of tea. Even so, it puts him right off his appreciation of the Rhovanion landscape and he can't help but feel that heaviness that sits in his throat and weighs down his stomach settle back down, temporarily forgotten in his appreciation of the county.

He shuts his eyes, perches his feet up on the dashboard and lets Gavin drive them on through the rest of the day, northward and onto his new life.

* * *

Yeah, okay so I took some liberties with the geography (And renamed the Lonely Mountain, as is befitting a modernized setting)… well quite a few really (for instance, Rivendell is actually on the other side of the Misty Mountains and is therefore not a part of Rhovanion, but I couldn't resist putting it in anyway. And the Mirkwood does not live on a plateau- or at least I don't remember it being so), but hey! I'm an author dammit I'll do what I want. That's the beauty of AU's, I _can_ do what I want :P

Reviews are a charming way to stroke my ego… which needs constant feeding I've heard.


	3. Chapter 3: Uncomfortable Proposals

I own nothing but the clothes on my back and this computer, and my expansive tea collection, and a darling little sewing machine; most of the characters are creations of the lovely Tolkien (as if you didn't know).

Enjoy

* * *

**Chapter Two**: Uncomfortable Proposals and Strange Strangers

* * *

_Flashing red and blue lights behind frosted glass._

_Purposeful knocks on wood._

_Serious faces and stiff hats wrought between hands._

* * *

_Six months previously…._

"We need new blood." Dwalin's heavy voice reverberates through the little hall. The men shift uncomfortably where they stand. Thorin glowers from his seat on the stage.

Fili and Kili watch silently from a corner. For once their faces are serious.

Balin takes over for his brother, 'We have a crisis on our hands. We've not had a child in almost a decade and with every year that passes our home grows smaller. The mines keep us alive for now, but there's no one to replace the old and the dead. If we keep to our closed ways we're in danger of falling down a similar path as the settlements of Ered Mithrin."

Only the older men shudder in remembrance, but everyone knew the stories. Poverty and aggression had wrought itself upon the small towns that dotted the mountain range. Most had prospered for centuries; living off the riches the mountains had to offer, but inevitably the river of gold ran dry. The smart ones left. Those that stayed behind turned into the Tomorrow People, growing more destitute with every passing year; forever believing that the next day would bring them fortune. The next week, the next year would bring them their deliverance.

It didn't.

Forgotten and openly ignored by the government and the rest of the country, the remaining people turned desperate. With no means to feed themselves they turned on each other. Towns against towns; clans against clans; siblings against siblings. Madness reined the Grey Mountains for just short of a decade before it ended in a flurry of firebombs and death.

Very few survived those years and its final crescendo. Those who did fled to the cities or found themselves a home in Erebor, a shining settlement untouched by the war (as they liked to call it, however small it was). That was forty years ago now though and its lesson was gradually being worn away.

Even so, the people of Erebor never forgot.

"Well what are we supposed to do?" someone interjected from the back of the hall. Balin looks grim.

"We invite them in. Clear some land for developers, put the empty homes up for sale, and do everything we can to bring them-" he's interrupted by the men's sudden outbursts of outrage. The hall fills with the noise of angry miners. Dwalin growls menacingly when some of the men begin to insult his brother.

Fili and Kili remain quiet; instead they watch their uncle warily. Thorin stands at the back of the stage now, scowl growing larger and hands clenching and they wait for the inevitable blowout. He fails to disappoint.

"_Enough!_" he snarls. The hall falls silent, "Enough." He says again, "Balin is right. We _need_ people. This town is dying and we're too stuck in our ways to change it. We need bankers; investors. We need a doctor- hell we even need a fucking grocer! We haven't seen a marriage in this town for a good eight years and a child for even longer. I don't want to see this place turn into a ghost town, and I _certainly_ don't want it to turn into a bloodbath. I don't want to do this anymore than the rest of you; our old ways have protected us for years but they don't anymore. We need to take these steps and we need to take them _now_!"

With that he steps away, still glowering at the miners as he sits back down in his cheap plastic chair.

The men look humbled. Many are still angry but they keep quiet, seeing the wisdom in Thorin's words.

"What do we need then?" A voice breaks out.

"Or who, more to the point." Another says.

Balin smiles, and takes on from where he left off.

* * *

The meeting ends some several hours later, with a definitive list of people with vocations that they absolutely needed, and some slightly-more-than-vague plan to get them here. Fili and Kili, being among the youngest in Erebor, are left to pack away the old wooden benches and sweep the floor. The work rankles them less than it probably should; it's miserable outside and they'd rather wait for the pelting rain to ease before they brave it to their house some ten minutes' walk away.

They're mostly silent as they work. Fili is imagining the changes that will somehow take place (because they must) and how much it will change this little town. Kili is rather overawed but the organisational abilities of Balin and Dwalin (especially Dwalin, whom he's always found rather brusque and only a little intimidating- even if he had grown up with the man) who'd together been the guiding force in the planning of Erebor's redevelopment.

By the time they're done, the rain has in fact stopped and Kili swears he sees a ray of sun punching through the clouds. Their conversation picks up as they walk home.

"It's going to be weird isn't it?" Kili asks. Fili smiles.

"Yeah, but at least it will make the place interesting. Face it- all Erebor has is a bunch of old men and crazy women and a nice set of hot springs. And the mine of course-"

"Which neither of us are interested in."

"Exactly. Who knows; maybe with all of the new people coming in, Ma and Uncle won't be so against me going to uni." Kili smiles in agreement but inwardly he's terrified of the notion of his brother making a life somewhere without him. They walk in silence for a little while before a question that's been bumping at his lips finally bursts through.

"Do you really think we'll manage to get people? We're kind of a way away- I wouldn't have thought we'd find many takers… especially someone like a doctor."

Fili grins suddenly, then laughs, "Kili get your phone out."

"What? What for?" Technology is not a common thing in Erebor- Kili is the only one who owns a mobile phone, and they can count the number of people with a computer on a single hand.

"Because we need someone who can help us… someone with all the right connections." As his smirk grows wider Kili begins to clue in.

"Brother, I don't know if anyone's told you this, but you are brilliant."

"Yes I do think that's come up in more than one conversation." Kili punches him in the arm good naturedly, "Yes, yes, now hurry up and call the man."

Obediently, he pulls out his phone, scrolling through his pathetically small list of numbers to find the one he needs. The dial tone is soft when he puts the phone against his ear.

"_Hello?_" a man's voice answers, amusement already lacing his tone. Kili grins wickedly.

"Gandalf old man! Fili and Kili here. Listen, the town's finally decided to open itself up and we've got a list of people we rather need…"

* * *

_The present day._

It was nearing four o'clock by the time they got to Erebor. Poor Gavin had endured two hours of prolonged silence with his silent passenger and Bilbo was trying his hardest not to feel bad for the man who'd been kind enough to wake him when they reached the outskirts of the town.

He had to say, he was rather impressed by the place.

All the homes were made of stone, varying in colours from darkest grey- almost black- to pinky cream and yellows. Most had charming slate roofs (though he did see one or two wooden shingles thrown in too) and were adorned with creeping ivies and intricate stained glass windows. Every home was surrounded by gardens- if you could really call them that- left to run riot, roughly hacked away along stone paths, but otherwise left to their own devices. Obviously gardening was not a top priorty in Erebor.

Which rather made him wonder what exactly was.

Disgraceful gardens aside, Erebor was quite charming by all first impressions. The houses were beautiful, with their carved stone and wood and multitude of lead-light windows that seemed to glow from within. Tarmac roads were nowhere in sight- instead the road was covered with what felt like seamless stone pavers, great oak tree's lining it and bathing their journey in rich golden shadows (the sky had cleared up by the time they'd gotten there). It was as disarmingly beautiful in the flesh as the valley it sat in.

The town centre itself left much to be desired however. In fact, Bilbo wouldn't have even noticed that they'd gone through the middle of the place were it not for the great stone church and the little concrete grocers sitting next to it (the most modern piece of architecture he'd seen so far though still severely out-dated by Shire standards). Some large part of him was left wondering what exactly had possessed him to see fit to move himself to such a backwater town like Erebor. Whilst not a city boy by any means, he was quite used to the luxuries of twenty-first century living and he didn't think he'd seen a car younger than about fifteen years.

For such a tiny town, it took a surprisingly long time to find his house (though that might have been aided by how slow Gavin was driving). Erebor was so off the map that its streets didn't exist on the trucks GPS and they had to drive very slowly past every street in order to see its name, and all Bilbo really knew about his house was that it backed the forest. A trait which half the town seemingly shared.

At least there weren't any other cars on the road for them to annoy.

The garden of number 4 Thrains End was as overgrown and unkempt as the rest of them. Only slightly disheartened, he comforted himself by imagining its eventual transformation from jungle to perfectly civilised cottage garden. At least it would occupy him for a good long while. After all, he hadn't exactly planned on getting a job anytime soon (thanks to his extensive amount of savings), except maybe working at the grocers to fill his time, or even fashioning himself as a gardener for everyone else's ridiculous excuses for yards.

Once again, Bilbo was reminded of how little he'd actually thought this through.

Giant pile of green disappointment notwithstanding, upon spying through the copious amounts of overgrowth, he came to the decision that his house actually looked rather splendid. The stone was a lovely salmon and cream hue, fronted by a red oak door, carved and painted with what looked like a weeping willow pattern (though he couldn't be sure from this distance) and red, green and gold lead work in its little, starburst shaped windows… or maybe it was supposed to be half a daisy? Either way his door was lovely.

It wasn't until he'd actually fought his way through the garden- which had grown completely over what must have once been a stone path- that he realised they have company.

A rather tall, ageing man with a splendid grey beard stands waiting at his door. He wore a long coat of blue-grey wool with a matching twill trilby resting jauntily on his head. In the back of his mind, Bilbo wondered how he'd managed to get to his front door without leaving a trail of destruction through his front garden, but he was honestly more distracted by the pipe the stranger was smoking and his sudden craving for a smoke. Instead he settles for a confused smile and a dignified "Hello."

The stranger smiled broadly, eyes twinkling in the slowly dying light and pushed himself off the wall, "Bilbo Baggins I presume?"

"Ah, yes… and you are…?"

The old man chuckles and takes Bilbo's offered hand, "Gandalf at your service."

"Gandalf! You're the one who got this house at such an excellent price! I must thank you for that sir, it looks absolutely splendid!" Gandalf smile grows even wider, if that were possible and he takes a good long puff on his pipe. The urge for a cigarette grows stronger.

"You're quite welcome, I assure you. But come, you must be travel weary and eager to explore your new home." With that he turns around and opens Bilbo's marvellous door with a flourish.

He steps in with bated breath.

Only to let it out again in a flurry of dust. The house has been uninhabited for a long time, and the white sheets covering the furniture haven't stopped the inevitable accumulation of dust on every available surface. The draft from the opened door has disrupted the fine dust on the floor, setting it back into the atmosphere. When he sneezes from the sudden onslaught of dust in his nose, Gandalf laughs.

"Ah yes… I'd rather forgotten about that. Empty houses do gather a surprising amount of grime. No matter- " he pushes Bilbo outside again, "You deal with the path and I'll deal with the house." He shuts the door on an astonished Bilbo, "There's a machete on the wall!" he hears shouted from the inside. True to his word, there is indeed a dangerous looking knife resting on the stone to the right of his lovely door. It glints menacingly in the twilight.

Resigned, he picks it up; it's not something he's used before and he wonders if perhaps this should be left to a time when the light is fading away. But Gavin is emptying the truck and he doesn't want the man to have to be here any longer than he needs to be. Likely he's booked some place to sleep and would very much like to be there after a full days driving.

After about five minutes of solid work, Bilbo discovers that using a machete to hack mercilessly at the unsuspecting flora is surprisingly enjoyable. After sitting down all day it feels good to be moving, and the gnarled branches and vines falling beneath his knife are an added bonus. The path is cleared in a disappointingly short time and Gandalf re-opens his door at the same time that he stoops to pick up his stereo. Gavin is already walking down the newly cleared path and thanks Gandalf as the man takes the first of many suitcases from his arms.

If only takes about half an hour for the three of them to completely transfer all of Bilbo's things into the house- he had after all, taken very little with him. By the time Gavin shuts the back of the van it's become quite dark and his little cottage is looking very inviting with its lights winking merrily through the stained glass. It suddenly looks like the building is decked in fantastical jewels and Bilbo can't help but fall that little bit more in love with it.

He can only imagine Anaya's reaction when she finds the place. She'd be here in a little over a week after settling business back in the Shire. The girl would likely have a coronary at the sheer fabulosity of the house.

Upon inquiring, Bilbo finds out that Gavin has indeed booked himself a room in Dale for the night, and graciously turns down his offer of staying in his new home. He can hear clattering in the kitchen- which it quite close to the front door- from where he stands at the gate, watching the lights of the van turn around the corner. When he turns back to the house, he can't stop himself from admiring it just a little bit more before turning in.

As he's suspected, Gandalf is indeed pottering away in his kitchen, humming to himself as he heats what looks to be soup on an outdated gas stove. Bilbo thanks the gods for the small mercy of a kitchen that isn't powered purely by firewood, which was something he'd very much feared.

"I took the liberty of filling your pantry and fridge." Gandalf says, still looking at the stove. Bilbo is slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"That's very kind of you. Thank-you… and for the dinner too it would seem." The old man chuckles.

"Yes well, I'm no cook myself. One of the womenfolk made this. Bowls are in there, I believe." He points to the cupboard above the sink. Inside are six porcelain bowls of varied make and four slightly chipped tea cups; obviously well used. He pauses as he takes two bowls out.

He'd known the house was filled with furniture before he'd bought it- it was one of the reasons why he'd taken so little with him. But the little cupboard filled with mismatched plates, bowls and cups suddenly brought home the reality of this house. It had been abandoned for years, by someone who'd not taken any of their possessions with them. Likely they'd died, with no family around to take ownership of the house. The thought weighed heavily on his mind as he puts the bowls down on the bench and Gandalf unceremoniously pours the contents of the pot into only one of them.

"Oh. Aren't you eating?"

"I find nighttime meals spoil my appetite." He replies enigmatically. Bilbo raises an eyebrow at him but the old man doesn't elaborate.

He eats in relatively comfortable silence at the little kitchen table in the middle of the room; Gandalf puffing away at his pipe and filling the room with the rich smell of tobacco and Bilbo itching for a smoke but not quite remembering where he packed them.

Abruptly, his guest puts his pipe away into one of his pockets (Bilbo thinks he should be concerned that the pipe is still lit) and stands.

"I must be off. Things to attend to." He bows at Bilbo; which he finds a little strange but maybe it's just an Erebor thing.

"Oh... Okay. Well good night then. And thank-you for the food."

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, but he puts up a hand as Bilbo moves to stand up, "No need. I can show myself out. I wish you a good evening- I shall see you soon I expect."

And on that note, he glides out of the room. The front door shuts softly behind him and Bilbo can hear the man still humming to himself as he walks down the path and into the night.

Bilbo wonders if all the people of Erebor are as strange as Gandalf. If so, he's in for a more interesting life than he'd previously bargained for.

* * *

Did a little research into Dwarven history and geography (and by a little research I mean I googled it) and altered it (quite a bit) to fit a modern AU. Hope you Enjoyed it :)  
Comments feed my ego ;P


	4. Chapter 4: Morning Calls

I own nothing but this computer, the clothes on my back, my sewing machine and an avid imagination. Most of these characters are products of Tolkien's imagination (as if you didn't know).

enjoy

* * *

**Chapter Three**: Morning Calls

* * *

_Dark shadows in rooms._

_Empty bottles that reek of alcohol._

_Waking hours of sad eyes and hard truths._

* * *

Bilbo stared.

Green eyes stared back.

Bilbo stared some more.

Green eyes blink nonchalantly.

"Cat." He says, not quite giving up on his staring competition just yet.

Green eyes blink again.

"Mrrow." The black cat replies; still infuriatingly blocking his way to the bathroom.

"What are you doing here Cat?" Bilbo does not feel mad talking to the feline, no siree.

"Mrrow." It says again with the same level of innocence in its tone.

"How did you even get in here?" Bilbo doesn't remember seeing any animal flaps in the house, and he _knows_ all the windows were firmly shut because he had closed them himself- the nights apparently get quite cold in Erebor.

"Mrrow." The cat predictably replies. Frustrated, he steps forward- hoping that the animal will run away.

It doesn't.

Quite annoyed now, he picks the furry creature up, holding it at arm's length as he works his way into the bathroom before unceremoniously dumping it outside the doorway and shuts the door.

He hears a muffled "mrrow" through the painted wood. Bilbo suspects the feline is pressing its face against the door to make sure he hears it.

Relieving himself, he goes to open the door with some trepidation only to relax when he sees the cat is nowhere in sight. Heartened he makes his way to the kitchen to make his compulsory early morning cup of tea.

Only to stop dead when he sees the black cat perched on the bench- directly in front of the kettle- fluffy black tail curled around its feet.

"Ca-aat! What? What do you want from me?!"

Bilbo really wants his cup of tea.

For once the cat doesn't reply, simply sits in front of his tea making machine, blinking at him occasionally.

_The bastard knows_. And it's this thought that motivates him to shamble over to the cupboard in the hopes of finding a food for the blasted creature. Miraculously, there is in fact a tin of cat food sitting on the shelf.

At chest height.

Immediately within eyeshot…

_Gandalf._

"Mrrow." the cat says in encouragement behind him.

* * *

"I suppose you're an unspecified addition to the house, aren't you. Like wood-rot, or unpleasant neighbours."

He's sitting at the table now, mug of steaming tea between his hands, staring at the cat as it quite happily eats its food. He supposes there is some unwritten rule somewhere about not letting animals eat at the table, but dammit he's master of this house now and he'll do what he wants.

Wisely, the cat ignores his comment and continues to eat its meal.

Curious, he reaches out a hand to stroke it. The feline makes no move to show that his touch is unwelcome and he gives it a firm pat. Its long fur is deliciously soft and fine beneath his fingers and then it's like a drug because dammit, but he doesn't want to stop patting it. Its ears feel like satin and the hair along its back runs like water under his hands.

A cautious inspection of its rear end leads Bilbo into thinking it's a boy- possibly desexed (okay, so he doesn't _really_ know. He's not a bloody vet). He smiles in resignation.

"I suppose I'll have to name you… What about Catface?" The feline pauses in its eating to give him what feels like a disdainful glare, "Yes I suppose that is a touch too obvious. Garry? Mittens? No… too domestic…. Satan? That would give Lobelia a heart attack… might be tempting fate though. Hnn… Mufasa? No, you're right, you're entirely the wrong colour. Obsidian? Yeah, too wordy- I thought so too. Stygian? Nyeeh, more of an adjective than a proper noun… Let's see… you came in here quite unannounced, almost like magi-

"Ah! I have it! Wraith." The cat looks back at him, licking its lips.

"Well, it's better than Catface!" Wisely, Wraith says nothing, but he's still not looking entirely impressed. Fortunately, Bilbo is prevented from getting into a completely pointless and only slightly mad (and entirely one sided) argument with his newly acquired pet by a brisk knocking at his door.

Frowning, he pushes himself away from the table. It is terribly early (by his standards) and he's only wearing his pyjamas and a dressing gown. Wraith joins him as he makes his way to the front door, wrapping the dressing gown tighter around himself.

When he opens the door to the brisk morning air, he is greeted by beard; grey and lots of it. Upon further inspection he realises that the beard is attached to Gandalf.

"Good morning!" he says, smiling up at the ridiculously tall man with his ridiculously long beard.

Gandalf looks at him curiously, grey eyes twinkling mischievously, "And what do you mean by 'Good morning'? Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is morning to be good on?"

Bilbo stares at the man (mildly perplexed), "All at once I suppose." He says slowly as if he were talking to a child. Gandalf merely smiles enigmatically and lets himself in.

Left at the door, Bilbo shares an incredulous look with Wraith before following him into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asks, ever the polite host- even to unannounced guests.

"Ah, yes. That would be lovely thank you."

Bilbo takes a long moment to look at the large assortment of jars lining the bench, "Ahh… anything in particular?" Gandalf smile grows wider.

"Surprise me." Which is of course Bilbo's favourite reply when asking people about tea. After a moment's deliberation, he picks the Russian Caravan blend- simple but good.

"How do you take it?"

"Black, three sugars." That raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't comment. Instead, an awkward, protracted silence grows as they wait for the water to boil. Whilst the calmness sets Bilbo on edge, Gandalf seems content to sit at his table, humming softly to himself.

The cat jumps onto the table. His guest fortunately makes no remark about its lack of manners and instead smiles in delight.

"Why, hello you magnificent creature!"

"Mrrow." The cat replies. He laughs.

'Yes, you're quite right. It is nice to see someone living here again!"

"Myrrt," Wraith says in agreement, rubbing his head against Gandalf's outstretched hand.

By this point Bilbo has resigned himself to spending his morning in the company of a madman. He sets about making the man's tea in silence.

"How do you find your new lodgings?" Gandalf asks politely as the mug is set carefully on the table.

Bilbo smiles, "It's beautiful. The bedrooms are a touch on the small side I suppose, and there are a few light bulbs that need to be replaced. But otherwise it's in remarkably good condition for a house left abandoned for- actually, how long did you say it had been empty for?"

"I didn't. Quite a while though, I'd expect."

"I see… And how long, precisely, is 'quite a while'?"

"As long as it needs to be I suppose." Bilbo is again reminded that his company may not be completely right in the head.

"Right… Well… anyway, the furniture is all quite sturdy- if a little dusty- and the plumbing and heating seems to work well. I daresay we'll be a little cold in the winter, but that's to be expected with these old-style heaters."

"And the cellar?"

"I- what? Cellar? This place has cellar?" He's reminded of a parrot.

"All the homes in Erebor have a cellar Mr Baggins. In fact, I'd daresay we're sitting directly above one."

Bilbo peeps under the table. Sure enough, a heavy looking wooden trapdoor with an iron handle sits snugly in his floor. His mind fills with images of haunted dungeons, dark and dank with the scent of decay hanging in the air. When he looks back up, Gandalf is watching him with that damned enigmatic smile on his face.

"Um… What do they keep in cellars in Erebor exactly?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Anything that caught their fancy I'd say."

Bilbo gives Gandalf a long, hard look.

"You don't like giving actual answers, do you."

He smiles benignly "Not really, no."

"… You'd be an excellent politician."

"So I've been told."

Once again the silence drags on. Gandalf checks the clock on the wall (which is broken. Bilbo checked it last night), nods and stands up abruptly. Bilbo is beginning to get the feeling that this is becoming a thing of his.

"I must be off. Thank-you for the tea Mister Baggins, it was quite lovely- though not quite sweet enough by my standards. Enjoy your day."

Once again he's left standing alone in his kitchen as Gandalf lets himself out, empty mug (which he is quite sure he never actually saw being drunk) lying on the much used oak bench . He shares a look with Wraith- who is still sitting on his table.

"Do you think his eyes are supposed to sparkle like that?" he asks the cat. Wraith simply winks at him, turns around and jumps off the table, black tail swinging jauntily in the air.

For the rest of the morning, he sets himself to packing his belongings away and avidly dusting the various surfaces that didn't escape the onslaught of time. Thoughts of his old home are pushed firmly out of his head by the imaginings of a new one, filled with new things that don't carry the sickly scent of tragedy and anger on them.

Though he fears this house might have a few sad facts of its own.

And if he doesn't see Gandalf hanging a shiny new sign on his door before he leaves…. Well, he's bound to notice it sometime.


	5. Chapter 5: Unsuspecting Victim

**Chapter Four: **Unsuspecting Victim (Of Erebor's Hospitality)

* * *

_Pale cards around an empty bedside._

_Curtains drawn back on dead machines._

_Professional words of failure fill grieving ears._

* * *

Bilbo was so engrossed in his frenetic cleaning that he only noticed that it was well past lunchtime when his gut violently protested at its lack of attention. Uneager to challenge his ever hungry stomach he abandoned his work for the morning. The cleaning has left him in a good mood, so he sets about making his food with a cheery but determined air.

It takes some time to find the pots and pans in his new kitchen. One would have thought cooking implements would be kept rather near the stove- where one typically cooks food at- but apparently they do things quite differently here in Erebor and he finally finds them in a cupboard in the laundry- the next room across from the kitchen. Their queer displacement is something that will have to be remedied rather quickly, Bilbo thinks.

There's a loaf of bread (fresh, and what looks to be bakery made) sitting in a little breadbox on the counter, and a block of sharp and crumbly cheddar cheese in his terribly old looking fridge. A number of good quality tins of sardines sit amongst an assortment of baking goods in the pantry.

He reminds himself to properly thank Gandalf for the thoughtfulness of his housewarming. It's as if the strange man knows exactly what Bilbo loves- although given his relation to Anaya, that may be less of a surprise than one would think.

He's halfway through the movement of sitting down to a scrumptious looking cheese toastie with sardines when the knock comes. He freezes in his action; good mood dissipating slightly at the disruption. He shares a look with Wraith, who is sitting (once again) on his table and had previously been greedily eyeing his kippers.

The knocking comes again, and Bilbo sighs heavily, pushing his chair away from the table and makes his way to the front door. He makes sure to move his meal to a place with a higher altitude in order to deter the cat from eating his meal before him, which would very likely be his luck.

When he opens the door, he finds a large, fierce looking man standing impatiently on the other side. His head is mostly bald, but for the circle of thick dark hair that rings about it at ear level. He's vaguely reminded of a monk, if they were more into motorcycles and growing copious amounts of facial hair than worshipping God and being all pious. Not that he's going to tell the man on his doorstep that because _holy cow_ he looks like he could break him in half with a single finger and _sweet mother of God_ are those _tattoos_ on his scalp?

"Um… Hello?" Bilbo offers instead of the terrified squeak he feels like making, though honestly it's not far off. It doesn't help that the man positively towers over him (not that Bilbo was ever what you would call tall to begin with).

"You Bilbo Baggins?" The stranger asks in a deep, gruff voice.

"Yes?" He's not entirely sure what to do. On the one hand this could just be a friendly household call from the locals and he'd rather make a good impression on them given where he plans to live for the next unspecified amount of years. On the other, the bloke doesn't exactly look terribly friendly. He looks rather grumpy actually- and maybe just a little bit embarrassed- like someone's made him knock on Bilbo's door.

"Good." And with that the man lets himself in, squeezing past Bilbo who is still holding the door open.

He stares out at his overgrown garden for slightly longer than the average glance in astonishment. Letting themselves in unannounced is most certainly becoming a thing for the locals in Erebor. He's not entirely sure what to think about that. Does that make them more friendly? Or simply ruder?

When he gathers enough courage to turn around, he finds that his guest is waiting for him in the kitchen.

He's also helped himself to his lunch.

Which is lovely, honestly. Bilbo didn't even want to eat that sandwich.

Good mood now well and truly gone, he stands uncertainly at the doorway to the kitchen. The stranger graciously notes his presence with an assessing look through bushy eyebrows.

"The name's Dwalin. Am I the first?"

"What? The first?" Bilbo stammers, "Yes- well I mean Gandalf was here last night and this morning, but is he really from Erebor? Anaya told me he wasn't… really…" he trails off under the weight of Dwalin's stare.

"So I'm the first."

"Yes?" Dwalin goes back to Bilbo's meal. Once again he's struck by the one sided awkwardness of the silence, and in a fit of anxiety he blurts out "would you like some tea?"

Honestly it's a reflex reaction.

"Coffee… please." The 'please' is added on like an afterthought. Completely ignoring the absurdity of the situation, he turns the kettle on and makes up a mug of instant coffee. His guess is his guest likes it black, strong and no sugar, but he doesn't dare ask to see if his assumption is correct.

"They say you're the new doctor." Dwalin interjects into the sounds of coffee-making. Bilbo freezes, then puts the jug down carefully. He's only a great deal confused by the statement.

"I'm not the new doctor." He says very slowly, "Just a new resident."

"But you're a doctor, aren't you?" Bilbo sighs heavily.

"Well, yes- but I quit the profession a while ago. I didn't come here to-"

"So you _are_ the new doctor then."

"No, I am _not._ I did not move to Erebor so I could be your new GP!" Bilbo is getting rather annoyed now, as he always does when someone brings up his old job. And this is not something he wants to talk about with a stranger who's helped himself to his lunch.

"I've got a problem with my hands. They're-"

"Look, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. It's been wonderful meeting you, but really, it's time for you to go."

Bilbo stares at them. His nostrils might be flaring; he is very worked up.

Dwalin looks as if he is about to say something rude when he is stopped by a knock at the door.

"That'll be the door." he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Bilbo's not about to make a move to answer it.

He walks to his front door in a daze. This is not how he'd thought his first day in Erebor would pan out. It was _supposed_ to be a boring day full of cleaning and maybe a little gardening thrown in at the end. There was _certainly_ not supposed to be any mad locals letting themselves in and eating his food without so much as a 'by your leave'.

And to assume he was a practicing GP no less!

More beard greets him when he grumpily swings open the door. This time it's white- he expects the next one will be blue- or purple. Some ridiculous colour to fill out the door-beard-greeting-rainbow. He also finds, then looking closer at said beard that there is a jovial looking old man with a large nose and even bigger ears attached.

"Hello," he says cheerily, "You must be the new doctor." Bilbo stares at the man, aghast. He honestly has no idea who they've gotten the idea of him being their new GP from, but when he does he's going to strangle them. Slowly. Personally he suspects Anaya, but that Gandalf fellow seems like a crafty bastard too.

"Apparently he's not a doctor anymore," Dwalin calls out from the kitchen. The old man grins at the sound, and for the third time that day a guest lets themselves into Bilbo's abode.

There's probably a vein pulsing dangerously on his forehead by now. The sheer _audacity_ of these Ereborites! Why did they never put this in their little please-come-and-populate-our-town-it's-really-love ly-we-swear pamphlet? Though he supposes if their little blurb about the place said 'be prepared to have your home invaded by complete strangers who will insist that you are something you would very much rather not be' they probably wouldn't get many takers.

When he walks back into his kitchen- his daze well and truly in force now- he finds the two men have already bypassed greetings. Fortunately, Balin did not see fit to help himself to Bilbo's pantry or fridge. He has however finished off the coffee he'd been making for Dwalin and is now happily sipping away as he sits next to the taller man.

Wraith watches disdainfully from the counter, tail twitching occasionally. Bilbo agrees completely.

"I really am sorry. But what are you _doing_ here?" He asks when he finally gathers his frayed thoughts together. Balin watches his over the rim of his coffee.

"Well we _were_ here to greet the new doctor."

"Which I clearly am not."

"It would seem so. A shame really, because Erebor hasn't had a resident doctor for about eight years. Not since the last one died."

"Died?" Bilbo squeaks.

"Aye," says Dwalin, "Just went and offed himself outta the blue." Bilbo eyes the exits nervously.

"That's a… lovely... Really."

Balin rolls his eyes in exasperation, "What he means is we need ourselves a new doctor. Dale is almost an hour's drive away. We need someone who lives in the town to fix us. And you, Mister Baggins, are a doctor. Gandalf found you for us himself."

"I'm not a doctor anymore. I quit."

"And why did you quit Mister Baggins? Surely our need is greater than any personal reasons for leaving the profession." Bilbo's face- which had previously been an open book to his guests- suddenly shuts off.

"I'm going to ask you to leave, please." He says in a cold, dead voice. The men eye each-other uneasily. This isn't what they'd expected when Gandalf had warned them that he'd be reluctant. Even so, Balin tries one last attempt to reason with the newcomer.

"Mister Baggins. Erebor _needs_ a doctor. We're not getting any younger and the trip to Dale certainly isn't getting any shorter. The sense of common decency would be to work for us."

Bilbo snaps.

"Common decency!" he screeches. Balin flinches at the shrill noise, "Common decency? You people wouldn't know common decency if it danced the Macarena naked in front of you! You help yourselves to my home- my _food_- barging in like you own the bloody place and you have the-the _nerve_ to talk to me about common decency!"

He walks out of the kitchen angrily; they hear the front door open.

"Now get out!" Bilbo shrieks from the parlour.

Balin and Dwalin share a look of muted resignation before they stand- too slowly for their host's liking if the "Out- out- get out!" is anything to go by.

As soon as they are out on the threshold, the door slams shut behind them. They can still hear Mister Baggins muttering to himself in outrage as he walks away into the depths of his new home. They take a moment to recollect themselves. An angry little spitfire of a man was not what they'd been expecting to have to work at. Dwalin thinks he'll have to have 'words' with Gandalf, if that was what he meant by 'a little on the aloof side.' Balin has just realized that he's still grasping Bilbo's mug.

"Fussy wee lad isn't he?" He says as he sheepishly sits the mug down on the doorstep- safely out of reach of any swinging door before striding quickly to catch up with his brother, who hadn't bothered to wait.

"Aye." Dwalin replies succinctly. His brother had always been the conversationalist. Balin is well used to carrying his conversations on by himself with the minimum input.

"Can't say that talk about the last Doctor helped our cause much though."

"Aye."

"I think it be best if we worked on him a bit before we bring out the big guns though. What say you?"

"Aye."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Don't really seem like a doctor though does 'e?"

"Hmm- more a grocer than a doctor. But I have every faith in Gandalf's selection."

"Aye. He best be right about this bloke though." Balin studies his brother curiously.

"You can feel it too?" he asks as they turn out of Bilbo's little culdesac. Dwalin nods grimly.

"Something's afoot. Troubles a'brewin. We're gonna need him, I fear." It's probably the longest string of conversation he's said all day. Balin is used to this by now though.

"You and me both, brother." He says quietly, clapping the younger on the back, "You and me both."

Inside a little house at the end of a little street, hazel eyes watch guiltily as the two brothers walk away.

So much for making a good impression.


	6. Chapter 6: Toymakers & Garden Tools

**Chapter Five**: Toymakers and Garden Tools

* * *

_Darkened corridors in bleached whites._

_Stiff sheets hide frozen lives._

_Empty hearts and shattered glass_.

* * *

It took Bilbo all of an hour to feel incredibly guilty for his less than gracious expulsion of Balin and Dwalin. As it was, he'd felt the stirrings of remorse in his gut the moment he'd shut the door on them. It didn't take long at all for him to start seriously regretting his flagrant disregard for any modicum of hospitality- shaky as their claim was at the receiving end. One would have thought twenty-nine years of life in the Shire would have shaped him into a better host than that.

Irregardless of his less than stellar hospitality, there was no good in dwelling on the past. Instead he channeled his frustration into bettering his appearances to his neighbors and promised himself to be infinitely more polite to the next brusque strangers that help themselves to his home.

In other words, he started work on the garden; which was a disgrace and needed to be remedied as quickly as possible. After standing in the beginnings of his hastily cut path from the night previously, he decided that most of what remained of somebody's tenderly cared for garden (that is, if it had ever been cared for at all) was a lost cause and most of the plants would have to be replaced. There was a rambling rose growing along the right-hand fence that looked salvageable with a great deal of pruning, and there were a number of lupins running rampant through the left half of the garden that could be spectacular with a judicious bit of culling. The well-established apple tree looked a bit scraggly but could maybe polish up come next summer- though its numerous offspring (born thanks to neglect) would have to go. But the mass of brambles that smothered almost everything (and in some places grew over his head) would have to go. And he wasn't sure about that butterfly bush either.

It was fortunate that Gandalf had left the machete by the door, because Bilbo hadn't thought to take any gardening tools with him; an unfortunate lack of foresight on his part. He spent the next hour and a half hacking mercilessly away at the brambles closest to the path he'd made last night. If the growing multitude of scratches on his arms were anything to go by, they didn't appreciate the unsolicited attack. The sun shone down, hot and bright and undoubtedly burning the back of Bilbo's neck. Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them sting uncomfortably. He told himself it was all a necessary evil.

By the time he found the shed, the sun was beginning to dip down to the horizon. It was hidden away in a corner of the garden, leaning up against the stone wall surrounding the house. He wouldn't have noticed it at all were it not for a wisteria vine- partly strangled by brambles- growing unusually high and heavy thanks to its support. Thus the next hour was spent slowly making his way towards the shed because _surely_ it had some selection of gardening tools stored away inside. The rest of the house had been left habitable after all so why would a little garden shed be any different?

When he did reach it, the sun had reached that spot in the sky somewhere between midday and sunset. Given that it was summer, he marked it as being somewhere close to four o'clock. His prodigious appetite momentarily forgotten by the victory of reaching the shed, he set about tearing away at the tendrils of intertwined wisteria and blackberry. Several more cuts and some particularly vicious curses later, he cleared enough space to open the door. The padlock was all but rusted through, but the iron hinges looked unscathed by the passage of time.

A few hard knocks with the butt of the machete dealt with the lock and a good yank dragged the door open. Inside the shed was gloomy, thanks to the mass of plant life growing over the grimy little window on the back wall. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that there was an impressively tall pile of teetering ceramic pots sitting in one corner and a multitude of gardening tools in the other; their metal miraculously untouched by the years of neglect. The floor was dusty, long dead leaves strewn across its surface.

"It's been a while since that shed's been opened." States an unfamiliar voice behind him. Bilbo very nearly lets out an unmanly shriek. As it is he jumps violently, swiftly turning about face to see the speaker. A smiling man- perhaps ten years older than Bilbo- stands a little way from the main path. His eyes twinkle in a suspiciously similar way to Gandalf's and he sports a ridiculous looking hunter's cap with the flaps folded up and a rich brown mustache the curls up at the ends to match.

"Been a while since anyone's bothered to do the gardening around here too I suppose." The stranger carries on. His lips seem to be in a constant state of quirkiness, always about to leap up into a boyish grin.

The man suddenly remembers his manners and bows, "Bofur, at your service." He says solemnly. Bilbo represses the urge to laugh at the gesture.

"Bilbo Baggins, at yours." He replies in the same formal manner, though he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. Bofur grins, all thoughts of ritual now forgotten.

"So tell me Mister Baggins. Why _are_ you gardening? It's not to keep up appearance is it? Because I'd daresay the plants are managing to do that quite fine by themselves."

Bilbo bristles, "Well I can certainly see _that_! Imagine! All these beautiful houses and not a single tended bed or cleared path amongst the lot of them! It's disgraceful!" Bilbo is too heated to notice the removal of his decency filter until the words have already escaped from his mouth. He blushes in embarrassment and hopes he hasn't offended the man.

Bofur just smiles crookedly, not unfazed in the least, "It's been a long time since we've had the chance to do any form of upkeep. Mining eats up the time for many of us." He says in defence.

Bilbo smiles absently, not really sure what to say, "Well, it's rather tempting to become the town gardener," is what he opts for, "Honestly, I don't know how you expect to make an impression on investors when you don't even care about the maintenance of your yards."

Bofur raises an eyebrow, "Not a doctor, Mister Baggins?"

"Now, see here!" he points the machete at Bofur in indignation, "I don't know where you lot got the idea that I'm your doctor, but you can banish the thought! I am _not_, nor will I ever be, your _doctor_!"

Bofur raises his hands in acquiescence, "Well it might well be that pretty looking sign over there sticking thoughts into our heads." He point behind him.

"What are you talking about? There no…. sign." Bilbo pushes past Bofur and trails off.

There is indeed a sign, all shiny and pretty and new, now attached to his front door. In fine engraved letters the words _Bilbo Baggins, Resident General Practitioner_ stare back at him.

"Wh-What? I don't understand… when did this even get h-

"_Gandalf!_" Bilbo does _not_ shriek, "That meddling bastard! I'll bet this is all his doing! My beautiful _door!_" he moans in despair.

Bofur flips his head back and laughs heartily. Bilbo swings around, "Don't you laugh! This is serious! I am _not _Erebor's doctor- nor anyone's for that matter." His machete swings around as he gesticulates furiously, "And just _look_ at what he's gone and done to my beautiful door!" He turns back on Bofur as an idea slips into his mind, "You'd best not be here to try and convince me. Because I won't I tell you- I absolutely refuse!"

Bofur's laugher has subsided by now and he shakes his head in placation, eyes not nearly wary enough for all Bilbo's posturing with his giant knife.

"I just came here to meet the newest addition to Erebor actually… and hopefully make friends."

Bilbo stares suspiciously for a moment before the sheepishness sets in.

"Right… yes, well… ah hello…"

Bofur laughs. It seems to come easily to him- Bilbo almost envies the man.

"Aye, hello to you too. Now, fancy some help with your gardening?"

Bilbo gives him a good hard look of appraisal, then remembers the time.

"Tea first, then work."

* * *

Bofur, it turned out, was one of the miners of Erebor. He'd recently been made one of the overseer's he told Bilbo proudly- though it was mostly because of the free beer they offered him at the pub. He lived with his cousin Bifur, who could no longer work in the mine thanks to an accident several years ago that rendered him unable to speak full sentences- amongst. He now worked part time at the grocers with Bofur's younger brother Bombur.

Bofur informed him, in a conspiratory tone over the rim of his teacup that his brother was of _extremely_ generous proportions, and that he suspected half the goods that went into the grocers were actually destined for his brother's pantry. Bifur was yet to confirm his suspicions however.

Bilbo found himself liking Bofur more and more as the day turned into night- the promise of gardening forgotten now that he'd sat down with tea and some decent company. He was warm and jovial, with a propensity for blurting things out without first thinking them through. The only time things got remotely uncomfortable was when Bofur asked about his move.

It was a reasonable question really. But Bilbo was so used to people tip-toeing over a subject that they knew all about that when asked he was stumped. The silence stretched on awkwardly as he looked for a halfway decent answer. Bofur looked like he'd started to regret his question, obviously reading between the lines. In the end, he settled for a weak "The Shire no longer felt like home," before changing the subject to Bofur's hobbies. Which apparently included smoking a pipe and carving wooden toys that he sold in Dale once a month.

And so the moment passed without casualties and the night went on; tea turning into beer, then two, then three. It was almost nine by the time his guest actually left, complimenting Bilbo on the hastily prepared meal of sausages and mash and the beer and promising to come over to do some _actual_ gardening tomorrow afternoon. Bilbo was left feeling more warm and content when his guest left that he'd felt in the past three months combined.

He settled down in front of his empty fireplace- Gandalf's foresight did not extend further than a full pantry- with a book and another mug of tea. Wraith had helped himself into the house at some point and miraculously didn't start annoying him for dinner (which was nice for Bilbo, but he tried not to think of the little bird or mammal that had likely been his meal). Instead the cat jumped onto Bilbo's lap and then climbed up his chest to sleep on the head of his slightly musty smelling armchair.

He'd only made it halfway through his tea when the drooping of his eyelids became too much however. The day had certainly been full on and if felt strange to believe that he'd barely been in Erebor twenty-four hours. Besides that, he was starting to feel uncomfortably cool. With a great groan he pushed himself up and stumbled off to the bathroom for a long, hot shower and what he hoped would be a long and uneventful night's sleep.

And whi lst he told himself he didn't want any more funny business like that of today, with Gandalf and Balin and Dwalin, he couldn't fight the cautiously hopeful feeling that maybe his time in Erebor wouldn't be that bad. It wouldn't be normal, he could tell that already, but maybe it wouldn't end up being hell on Earth either.

And who knows, he might even enjoy it after a while.

* * *

Reviews warm the cockles of my heart. Honest ;P


	7. Chapter 7: Polite Burglars

May I give a shout out to my reviewers! I love you for writing to me! It means the world to see that people are actually enjoying this :D A particular shout out to **Rina**, who suggested making Thranduil a stoner. You have set the building blocks in place for a separate short story from the same universe! I did a little dance in the shower when I came up with it so thankyouu!

now. enjoy!

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**Chapter Six:** Polite Burglars and Inept Gardeners

* * *

_Sad eyes that follow his every move._

_Conversations halted mid-way._

_Patients that try to be the doctor. _

* * *

The following day found Bilbo being woken from his usual grasping nightmare to the unfamiliar sensation of a strange weight on his chest and pinprick topped paws kneading his collarbone.

"Mrrow." Came the loud noise from Wraith, as if his sitting on his chest wasn't enough to bring Bilbo out of his slumber.

He groaned in despair.

"If this is going to be a regular thing with you I regret ever giving you that bowl of food," he moaned as he pushed the cat off and rolled over, pulling the blankets over his head as he did so.

"Mrrow." Came the stereotypical reply, and he felt more than saw, the cat walk over him to push himself underneath the covers. The smell of warm fur and musk filled his nose whilst Wraith settled himself down, curved against his chest. Soft and steady purring reverberated through his neck.

"Insufferable creature." He murmured into his pillow, a small smile touching his lips as he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

When he did get up some hours later, the digital clock on his dresser said nine-thirty and the cat was gone. Only the multitude of long black hairs on his pajamas told him that the touching scene of affection hadn't been a dream.

Getting out of bed proved an interesting experience. Whilst gardening wasn't exactly what anyone would classify as 'strenuous,' it was obviously taxing enough to give his admittedly neglected muscles an excuse to protest. His back felt tight and achy and his biceps and pectorals throbbed with every stretch. He told himself it was just his general lack of exercise- he was _not _getting old. _Christ_ he was only thirty-four, hardly old enough to experience this on a day to day basis.

With only the slightest of grimaces he wraps the thick wool of his dressing gown around him and pads off to the bathroom. Wraith isn't sitting in front of the door, which makes a nice change from yesterday.

When he walks into his kitchen, scratching absently at the back of his sunburnt neck, he finds his table occupied by two men; steaming mugs in front of them, talking quietly to each other. They sit turned away from the doorway and his entrance goes unnoticed. A smug looking Wraith sits in front of an empty food bowl (also on his table).

He should really stop being surprised by this.

"Not even forty-eight hours and already I've been broken into. I would have thought you'd wait at least a month." He says in resignation, leaning against the doorframe.

The men start violently and turn around. They at least have the grace to look guilty. Now that he can see their faces he can see that they're very young. The younger one, with dark brown hair and gaunt-looking eyes doesn't even look like he's twenty. His older companion is blonde, with a carefully groomed moustache that's been plaited at the end. The hair on both of them is impractically long, though at least the blonde makes some attempt to control his with simplistic looking braids.

The blonde grimaces sheepishly, "Well we wouldn't have… but we'd been waiting outside for a good ten minutes before the cat let us in. We figured that was enough permission."

Bilbo raises an eyebrow.

"The cat let you in… I suppose he made you the tea as well," He says flatly. The dark-haired one hides a growing smile behind his mug. Blondie coughs nervously.

"Ah… no. We sort of helped ourselves to that … but he's a smart animal that one- where'd you find him?"

"I didn't. He found me. Yesterday." The brunette snorts before hiding behind his cup again when Bilbo sends him a look.

"Right," says the blonde, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, "Well, I suppose we should introduce ourselves." Bilbo thinks this is a very good idea indeed, "I'm Fili, and this is Kili; my brother. We came here to say hello, not break into your house… but it would seem that you weren't quite awake yet." They stand up, movements strangely synchronized, and give him a shallow bow. He prevents the threatening giggle with a sharp pinch to his elbow.

"Bilbo Baggins." He's inwardly proud of how level his voice comes out.

"Ah, yes-" says the brunette, Kili.

"We know." Finishes Fili.

Bilbo grimaces again, "The sign. Right, I need to do something about that."

Kili's tilt of the head is remarkably bird-like, "You mean you're not a doctor?" he asks innocently. Fili looks like he wants to shut his brother up.

Bilbo frowns, "No, not really."

"Why not?" Fili _really_ looks like he wants to shut his brother up now.

"How long have you been waiting for me to get up?" he changes the subject clumsily, but it gets the point across. The brothers sit down as he crosses the room to find the eggs and a pan. Absently, Bilbo dwells on the benefits of getting some chickens.

"Not long-"

"-Only half an hour."

"And then there was the ten minutes waiting outside-"

"-So it's probably more like three quarters on an hour."

"I see," says Bilbo, frowning into the pan. The brothers speak almost in unison, knowing exactly what the other will say. It's a surreal experience, and one he'd heard only rarely even occurred amongst twins- and identical ones at that. These boys are not twins- Fili's face is too round to match Kili's sharp angles and darkened eyes and Kili too tall and thin to match his brother's stocky build. Though their eyes do glitter in that remarkable way that only cheery old men and trickster's children do, so they share that likeness at least.

"Are you hungry then?" the brothers nod fervently.

"Famished-"

"-Starving." Bilbo nods sagely.

"Pancakes?" they look at him as though he'd suddenly shown them the path to salvation.

"I think we're going to like _you_ Mister Baggins." Breathes Kili, something like worship in his brown eyes.

"And I, you Master Kili. But only if you find me a mixing bowl and some flour." The boy nods some more and leaps up, wrenching open cupboard doors as if his life depended on it. Fili watches his brother with amused eyes before turning to Bilbo again.

"That was very cunning of you sir, to win us over with food." He winks before moving to the fridge to pull out the milk.

"No one ever said the son of a Took could ever be anything less."

* * *

As expected, the pancakes went down well, with liberal sprinklings of sugar and lemon juice. The boys- as Bilbo was now want to call them- praised him enormously for his pancake-making skills, and teased each other even more so for their own failed attempts at flipping; most of which ended up broken or in the sink.

Because it was a Saturday (Bilbo having arrived in Erebor on the Thursday) much of the town would still be expected to be in bed or lazily reading the morning papers sent in the night before from Dale. Whilst never openly inviting him, the brothers covertly sent hints that their day was free. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bilbo seized on the opportunity and enlisted them in his war against the overgrown garden. They looked dubious, but nevertheless agreed to join him with the usual vigor that youth brings to new experiences.

Because this _is_ a new experience; he can tell that now- watching them ponder over the benefits of a gardening hoe and the alternative uses for hedging shears. Which _does not _include, in case one was wondering- an economical multi-tool for clipping beards, chopping vegetables or –and he can't help but cringe at _that_ suggestion- circumcision. They are "_for gardening only!_" and he promptly confiscates them- though not without the most ridiculous puppy-eyes from Kili.

Questionable theories for gardening implements aside, they immerse themselves in his garden with surprising enthusiasm and energy. They happily take direction from Bilbo, and even better do what he asks them to- as opposed to providing a sullen nod and completely ignoring his advice. The youngsters from the Shire could probably take a leaf or two out of their book.

Of course, saying that one involves themselves with great enthusiasm is not- unfortunately- synonymous with sudden and inexplicable talent. The boys share between them the skills and finesse of a blind gopher. He's seen three year old children from the Shire with more awareness than these two, but he can't fault the lads for trying.

Even if Kili does hack down half the butterfly bush before Bilbo realizes.

In the end he sets them free on the eastern corner of the garden, dominated by brambles which need to go anyway. He can't imagine any garden plants surviving under _that _inhospitable thicket of thorns and dead wood.

They go at it for about an hour, maybe longer; Bilbo slowly but surely working his way through the mess of seedlings around the old apple tree, Fili and Kili enthusiastically destroying everything in their path, safely confined to their designated corner. Eventually though the boys get tired- or hungry- or both- and Kili asks in a deliberately weedy voice if they can stop now. He accedes, mostly because he's surprised they lasted that long in the first place. It's just as warm today as the day before, and there's nothing Bilbo would like more than an icy cold drink ( preferably with some sort of alcohol in it) and a nap. Unfortunately for Bilbo, it's only midday; entirely too early for alcohol and he'd rather not have his first impression for the town to be that of a lush.

Instead he finds them a bottle of lemonade- warm, unfortunately, however the freezer miraculously has ice in it (it holds very little else mind you). They sit contentedly in his kitchen; Wraith is stretched along the windowsill above the sink (which overlooks an as of yet untouched expanse of brambles) and a bumble-bee buzzes pleasantly in the background. The sun- reflecting off some unseen object- infuses the room in dappled golden light and Bilbo is happy to just sit there and enjoy the moment of tranquility and companionship (however brief) for what it is.

Fili and Kili, being young and still so full of life, are less so. They drain their glasses well before Bilbo even reaches the half-way mark. Kili fidgets with the edge of his shirt. Fili is studying Bilbo out of the corner of his eye. He's arguing with himself about something. Something about him- he can see it in the press of his lips and the not so covert glances from his glass, to himself, then back to the glass again. A finger makes an effort to tap before it's aborted.

"Spit it out."

"Ah- What?" Fili looks startled.

"Whatever it is you're thinking about. You want to ask me something- well go ahead, I won't bite." _Whether I'll reply however is another thing entirely_.

"What brought you to Erebor, Mister Baggins?" the words are blurted from Kili, his attention fixed on Bilbo.

"Bilbo. Call me Bilbo, please." The '_Mister Baggins was my father'_ goes unsaid. There's something like acknowledgement in Fili's eyes when he nods, but they give no room for backing out. He turns away- gathers his thoughts as he watches the gentle rise and fall of Wraith's chest.

"I guess… the Shire just didn't feel like home anymore." He turns back to the boys, "So we went looking for a new one."

"We?" Kili's forehead creases in confusion. Bilbo laughs half-heartedly.

"Anaya and I. She hasn't arrived yet- she said she'd be here in about a week.

"It was her idea, actually, to move. I probably would have just stayed in the Shire the rest of my life, but she wanted us to leave. In the end I agreed." _Mostly to piss her off. _Kili tilts his head in the birdlike way again.

"What's the Shire like?"

Bilbo looks up at the ceiling in thought, "It's large… well, bigger than Erebor at any rate. And orderly, I suppose… gardens have to be a certain way for it to be respectable… and possessions always have to be cleaned to perfection… heh, I remember this one time I forgot to clean my car after a trip down to Bree- Lobelia wouldn't talk to me for a week- I made it a point not to clean the thing after that.

"The people are polite, for the most part, and very generous- even to those they don't like, or disapprove of. But they're also unimaginative and rigid- too firmly set in their ways to welcome change… or differences." He can't hide the slight tone of resentment in his voice in the last part. Mercifully, Fili and Kili don't notice- or if they do, they don't mention it.

"That sounds… nice." Kili's face screws up on the 'nice'.

Bilbo snorts and spreads out in the uncomfortable wooden chair. He's about to make some waspish remark about the close-mindedness of the Shire-folk when his foot brushes against something heavy and metal. It makes a dull scraping sound as he pushes it away.

_The cellar_.

He sits up, sliding off the chair to kneel on the ground.

"Bilbo?" comes Fili's confused voice from above. Bilbo ignores him and studies the trapdoor. It's made of some heavy wood, worn smooth by years of being stood on (the table was probably not here until recently, he'd say), the iron handle clean and in the same curiously pristine condition as the tools in his shed- despite the lack of any oily residue which should have kept it in good knick. There's nothing on the door- no carvings, or stains, or unsightly gouges- to suggest anything marvelous about it, except for the fact that it is _a trapdoor_, which is marvelous enough in and of itself.

Kili slides off his chair to join him, intrigued.

"Oh." He says in disappointment, "It's just a cellar door Bilbo- nothing exciting about it." Fili has come down at this point and looks equally disappointed.

Bilbo looks at the boy as if he's said something incredibly stupid- which, to be fair, in Bilbo's mind is exactly what he'd just done.

"Kili. This not just a door to _a_ cellar. This is a trapdoor into _my_ cellar. In a house that's not been lived in for _decades_." Their eyes light up at the realization, "Don't you want to know what's down there? There's crockery in the cupboards, cutlery in the drawers and it contains almost all of its original furniture- this house was abandoned, with pieces of its old life just left to stagnate- what makes you think its cellar would be any different?"

"Mister Baggins," says Fili with a twinkling in his eyes that belies the seriousness of his voice. Bilbo knows that look- he's seen it on his Took cousins enough to know that it promises trouble of the best kind- and, occasionally, the worst, "I would suggest very strongly that you move away from the table. I cannot guarantee your safety when we wrench it away to get to this door." Kili is grinning like a madman and offers no reassurances.

Wisely Bilbo backs away awkwardly on his hands and knees. He stands up and leans against the bench to watch the brothers leap up and drag the heavy wooden table unapologetically across the floor. The noon-day light shines dappled on the surface of the trapdoor. He wonders briefly how long it had been since it last felt sunlight.

The door is large- perhaps about a meter square- and seems to be made of one single piece of wood. Its weight is confirmed when Kili cries out.

"Bloody hell! That's heavier than the one at home!" Fili just grunts and together they manage to tug the trapdoor open.

The boys are panting slightly as they stand back to admire their handiwork. Bilbo moves forward- trying to get a better view of the room below his house. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Wraith standing at the edge of the bench; his twitching, swishing tail reveals the feline's unease at the rising smell of must and abandoned rooms.

"Do you know who used to live here?" he asks quietly, eyes not leaving the square of darkness on his kitchen floor.

"No," says Fili, staring down into the depths himself, "this place has been empty for as long as I can remember- even longer than that, most probably."

"Dwalin says that a lot of these houses were abandoned not long after the mess in Ered Mithrin … that there'd been a lot of disappearances… maybe this was one of them," remarks Kili.

Bilbo gulps nervously. Things have suddenly gotten a whole lot more sinister.

He can see about five steps down, but no further. It feels almost as if the darkness envelops his feet when he takes a cautious down onto the first stone stair. He stops and turns to the boys.

"We need a light I think. Do either of you have a torch or a light- oh wait!" he fumbles around in his pockets until triumphantly he pulls out his old zippo lighter. It's seen better days, but still works a dream. Kili pulls out his phone and Fili works his way through the kitchen draws until he pulls out a box of matches and a long-necked gas lighter. He pockets both of them.

Suitably equipped, Bilbo descends. It grows noticeably colder as he goes down- the lighter a burst of warmth on his fingers and against his face. The brothers are not far behind him when he reaches the bottom. The combined brightness of their lights brings the room into poorly defined view.

The thing that surprises him first is that it's actually quite large- by his standard definition of a cellar anyway. It seems to be about as big as the kitchen directly above, with a dirt floor and stone walls. The wooden ceiling above their heads is rather low however; the wooden support beams only just above Kili's head- the tallest of their little group. Cobwebs litter every available nook and cranny and the dust is even worse down here than it had been above two days prior. Half the room is dominated by sturdy wooden shelves, mostly bare but for a few empty jars and several dusty bottles of wine. The other half holds a desk- strewn with paper- and an empty bookcase.

Curious, he walks over to the desk. Much of the paper is blank, but he sees a few covered in intricate, spidery handwriting. Some of it is even in glyphs and there are more than a few scrawled with runes in the margins. He picks up a loose wad of sheets and inspects them under the wavering light of his zippo- they're dry, made of some slightly thicker than normal paper that feels soft and creamy to the touch. They're also remarkably well preserved for what he supposes is their age... a lot like much of the things in his house actually. Underneath the paper he finds a book, bound in maroon leather with chipped gold leaf detailing in the corners. It has no title.

Bilbo puts the paper down and carefully starts to clear the book of its surrounding mess. When he holds the lighter closer to the book he can see that its cover is heavily scratched, as if it had been dropped several times. He's just about to open it when they hear a distant knocking and muted "_Hello? Bilbo you in there?_"

He suddenly remembers that Bofur had promised to come over today- with all the fuss with his 'burglars' he'd straight out forgotten. He glances back at Fili and Kili, who had up 'til then been studying the ancient contents of the jars with a sort of morbid fascination, "That will be Bofur," he says quietly. Their faces light up and then they're thundering up the stairs and into the kitchen, racing each other to the front door. Bilbo follows them at a more sedate pace, giving the musty cellar one last look before he reaches the top. The darkness fills the room again; musty and cloying.

"_Bofur_!" he hears the twin exclamations and smiles, going into his front room to greet his new guest.

At the bottom of his cellar, in a darkened corner the old book in its worn leather binding lies forgotten. A breeze from above rustles across the strewn pages like the wandering hand of a child before stuttering and dying with a quiet _hshaaa_.

The cellar in the old house on Thrains End falls silent once more.

* * *

You have no idea how much I hate writing Bilbo's name. If you ever see him spelt like Bilibo- it's because that's what my fingers automatically do on a keyboard with his name. Drives me_up the wall!_

Reviews feed my ravenous ego ;)


	8. Chapter 8: Centenarians and NIght-visits

I HAVE FANART, which is excellent in all kinds of ways. It can be found here: plintoon. tumblr post /53016884820 / modern-au-fili-and-kili-for-my-friend-lucys (Remove the spaces)

Also, may I give a shoutout to those that have left review! Thank-you very much! I'm sorry I don't reply- my life is very busy and more often than not I delete the emails with the links to reply before I remember! DX But I treasure every review! You people are amazing :3

Enjoy!

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**Chapter Seven**: Centenarians and Night-time Visits

* * *

_Trembling hands touch a cold brass handle._

_A room left forgotten; lived in, yet abandoned._

_Agonized wails send neighbors scurrying away._

* * *

Despite his twenty-five years of interaction with the land (via mining) Bofur proves to be only marginally more adept than Fili and Kili when it comes to Bilbo's garden. Whilst he can tell the difference between a bramble bush and a wisteria- and knows the correct way to use a shovel- putting such skills in combination with creating some sort of order seem slightly out of his grasp.

Bilbo doesn't mind; he's happy to spend his afternoon with three amusing people that all remind him in some way or another of Anaya. It makes him feel almost as if he were back home in the Shire; weeding out his garden whilst Anaya lounged lazily on his love-seat, languidly smoking the clay pipe she'd stolen from her grandfather. She'd never been much of a green-thumb either.

Together they worked for another two hours or so, the three locals toiling under the strict tutelage of Bilbo. With four people in his rather spacious front garden, they make remarkable headway and by two-thirty they had cleared almost all of the brambles- save for those that gathered under his kitchen window, which seem to be particularly insidious. For now, they leave the clippings out the front of his gate; Bilbo promised the boys that once they were fully dry, he would indeed have a bonfire to commemorate their fine efforts.

Of course, destroying hapless vegetation in a garden long since gardened came with its advantages. In two hours they had quickly collected an assortment of objects, swallowed by neglect decades ago. Kili was the first to find something- a crumbling pair of children's leather boots, with laces that disintegrated upon touch. With a great deal of reverence for the ancient booties, he'd placed them carefully outside Bilbo's front door. He planned to take them home and clean them to see what could be preserved.

Not to be outdone, Fili had crowed with delight when he stumbled across the remnants of a stone bird bath. It was carved from the same stone as the house and the carvings about its lip and broken base were reminiscent of the design on his front door. Bilbo thought it would look quite charming were the basin to be repaired and placed on a new pedestal.

Bofur, curiously enough, turned into their own metal detector. Though only concerned with killing off the undergrowth, he'd inadvertently collected almost a dozen pieces of tarnished cutlery (how it managed to get into the yard in the first place was anyone's guess) and twenty-six coins, all of varied age and value.

And Bilbo almost broke his spade when he came across a medium sized metal box under the shade of his apple tree. The boys had been almost bursting with excitement when the two older men had lifted the remarkably well preserved box (given its placement… in the ground) from its carefully dug hole. That was at least until Bofur had carefully pried open the lid. Stale air washed over them; inside was the skeleton of what looked to be a cat, most of its flesh long since rotted away.

Bofur guessed from the make of the box that the unfortunate creature was probably over a century old. Somberly, they return the exhumed feline to its grave. Wraith- who'd suddenly appeared the moment the sharp _clang_ of Bilbo's shovel alerted the others- watched from the base of the apple tree, acid-green eyes following their every move. When the deed was done, the cat lost interest. Watching Wraith's receding form, Bilbo wondered idly if his squatter had somehow known there was a body hiding there.

Come three o'clock and they ventured back inside- the locals being careful not to get any dirt on Bilbo's floors… or at least, they made sure to _after_ Fili had gotten a strict telling off for traipsing into the house with his filthy boots still on two hours prior.

The kitchen was much as they'd left it- the table and battered looking chairs still pulled to one side- the only exception being the trapdoor, which was once again firmly shut. Bilbo thought nothing of it- three hours in the garden was thirsty work and most of them had gone in to have a drink- he simply figured that one of the boys, or maybe even Bofur had closed it during one of their trips. Wraith followed them in- considerably cleaner and spryer than the other four and jumped back onto the bench to settle himself on the windowsill again.

"Tea?" Bilbo asks as he fills the jug in the sink.

"Coffee… please," comes the synchronised reply for Fili and Kili.

"Got any beer?" inquires Bofur. Bilbo rolls his eyes.

"In the fridge… Fili, Kili, do you mind moving the table back?" the sound of wood dragging on stone is his only reply.

Soon enough they were sitting around his table again, sipping at too-hot drinks (and beer in Bofur's case) and nibbling away at a pack of digestive biscuits that Bilbo had triumphantly pulled from his pantry. Another companionable silence fills his kitchen until Wraith jumps down from his place at the window to transfer into Bilbo's unsuspecting lap. He starts violently at the intrusion into his personal space, but can't help himself once the animal settles there and contents himself with stroking the feline's silky fur.

Bofur watches the silent interaction shrewdly.

"That's an interesting pet you've got there," he says into the silence, Bilbo looks up, distracted.

"Hmm?"

"Kili was just telling me before that it let them in when you weren't awake this morning." Bilbo frowns down at Wraith.

"Actually, yes… you never did explain how he did that Fili." The young man squirms uncomfortably.

"Well he didn't let us in, per se… but we'd been knocking at your door for five minutes before we checked to see if it was locked- it was- so we kept on knocking. We figured you'd wake up eventually. Except then Kili tried the door again five minutes later… and… well… it opened. And there was the cat, watching us from behind the door."

They all turn to start at Wraith, varying levels of disquiet written across their faces. The cat opens one eye when Bilbo's steady petting halted.

"Mrrow." It says into the heavy silence and closes its eye to fall asleep again. His input seems to dispel the uneasy quiet.

"We'd kind of just figured I hadn't checked the door properly the first time… it just sounded funny to think that the cat had let us in." Continues Fili. Bilbo smiles slightly and resumes his stroking.

"Yes, I'm sure that was just the case."

Bilbo is quite certain he'd locked the front door last night before collapsing into bed last night.

* * *

The strange moment passes, and they fall into an easy conversation about the comings and goings of Erebor. Bilbo, being the only non-local at the table is eager to learn the ins and outs of the place; the people-to-know, the people-not-to-know and all the places to check out and become acquainted with. His guests are more than happy to oblige and they spend a good hour or so enthusiastically discussing (and in some places heatedly) the best landmarks to explore (the gates to the original mine, the barrow tombs and stone circles of the town's ancient inhabitants) and the best places in town to get the things he needs. Fili and Kili boast about the fine homemade ale sold at the local tavern- The Angry Dwarf- run by their mother Dis- who, according to all three locals, is beyond terrifying.

Bofur excuses himself at about five- he'd promised to have dinner with his brother and his large amount of offspring. The talk of dinner alerts Bilbo and the Durin brothers to the fact that they are in fact ravenous. An entire pack of digestives between four people- two of them hungry young men and another a Baggins (in the Shire, the Bagginses were renowned for their prodigious appetites, yet unusually small figures)- was very clearly not enough to fill their stomachs.

Bilbo remembers some delicious-looking sausages hiding away in the meat draw of his fridge and fishes them out. They do, indeed, look as good as he remembered and he turned to the boys in askance.

"Will you stay for dinner?" if possible, Kili's adoration grows even stronger.

"You're going to feed us again?" he breathes in wonder. Bilbo laughs through his nose and shares a look with his brother.

"Anyone would think you'd been starved half your life," he says as he bustles around the kitchen, fetching the cast iron frying-pan and a pot. The onions and potatoes are hiding in the pantry, carefully closed away in a wooden bread-box.

Ever the diligent host, Bilbo refuses to let the brothers' help. Although when it comes down to it, this may be more because he doesn't trust them with sharp pointy things (what with their performance in the garden) and less because of his hosting principles. So they sit and talk, and Bilbo listens, occasionally throwing in a question on two about their dreams and aspirations.

And by Aule, but doesn't that make him feel old.

Kili loves archery; several times a month he wanders off into the wilderness with Fili to hunt wild deer or occasionally even boar. He talks of a little fox vixen that he befriended recently, feeding her scraps of food behind the tavern- he's hoping that come spring she'll have had cubs for him to see, and perhaps even breed- he'd read somewhere about domesticating foxes. Fili smiles indulgently at the fantasy. He has a soft spot for art and the like- an appreciation of which is something Bilbo gets the general feeling has been lost in this little town.

When asked about what he wants to do with himself, the younger brother falls short, shrugging with a callous ease that speaks of youth and naivety and uncertain dreams for the future. He has an entire lifetime to work out what to do with himself and Bilbo doesn't grudge him for that- even if _he'd_ been busting his ass in med school at Kili's age.

Fili, being the elder, has somewhat more of the plan. He talks of going to university- to do what, he's not entirely sure, but he figures he'd work it out once he gets there. There's a certain set to his face that tells Bilbo of his unsurety, and he has suspicions that there's someone (or some_ones_) in his life holding him back- one way or another. Instead of asking about such things, he just smiles and asks about his thoughts on a business or arts degree; that perhaps he should go to a few university open days before choosing. Fili smiles so genuinely at that that he has to turn away- such easy smiles reminds him of someone else and he can't bear to think about that.

"You know," Kili says, in-between mouthfuls of dinner, "I would have thought I'd have found this kind of thing more weird." Bilbo raises a confused eyebrow.

"Weird meaning what, exactly?"

He screws up his face, trying to find the words, "well… kinda haven't known you for long-"

"All of about eight hours." Interrupts Fili, looking at his watch.

"Yeah. And now here we are, sitting at your table eating the dinner you made for us."

"…Your point being?"

"Well, Erebor doesn't exactly get a lot of new people… in fact we don't get any. And it's not as if Fili and I have ever travelled much. So I dunno… would someone consider this normal? Or are you just unusually hospitable?"

The recent memories of throwing Balin and Dwalin out of his house not two days before comes to mind and he smiles sheepishly. Then he remembers the Shire and its infamous hospitality. It's not as if he _wasn't_ raised to greet complete strangers as if they were long time family friends… he'd just sort of… forgotten it of late.

"My parents did raise me according to the Shire standards… so normal… maybe? I don't know, it's not really a thing I've ever thought about. We just welcome people- and food's always been a big part of that." He stops himself from gesticulating with his fork and embarrassing himself by flicking mashed potato or something equally stupid.

The brothers nod slowly. Kili seems deep in thought about the concept and something tells Bilbo that Ereborean's might be pretty big on the isolationist front. A feeling of unease settles in the pit of his gut as he considers a life in a town hostile to newcomers.

But that would be ridiculous wouldn't it? After all _they'd_ been the ones to open their gates and sell off their old houses. One would have thought that was an open invitation for new blood. He shrugs off the sensation and smiles again at the boys before turning back to his dinner.

Fili and Kili are telling him about their recent escapades with their cousin Gimli, who'd found someone in Dale to be mooning over whilst they wash the dishes (they'd started before he'd even realized, and he just decided not to protest). Bilbo has an inkling that the brothers might not be the best wingmen for poor cousin Gimli and he can't help but giggle at the thought of them whispering ridiculous fallacies about the boy into his recent heart-throbs ears. They're half-way through at tale involving a stick of celery and a very nonplussed barman when there comes a knock at the door.

Fili turns around to eye Bilbo, "Expecting anybody?" Bilbo frowns and shakes his head.

"No… unless it's maybe Gandalf-" he suddenly remembers that he's very mad at the crazy bugger and stands up, brushing down his shirt with a deceptively large amount of calm,"-Who I am going to hurt. Very much." He stalks out of the hallway, guns blazing.

Back in the kitchen, Fili and Kili share a confused look, sounds of "Gandalf you bastard I'm going to kill you!" and "My door, my beautiful door Aule-dammit Gandalf!" echoing into the kitchen.

Bilbo hears hysterical laughter emanating from the kitchen as he rants his way to the front door. He's halfway through a "You'd best be planning on taking that off you mad old bastard!" when he opens the door.

He trails off.

It's not Gandalf.

A man stands at his doorway- not as tall as Dwalin was, but tall enough to tower over Bilbo's diminutive 5'6" status. His eyes are grim, the set of his mouth borderline sullen and framed by a close cropped black beard flecked with grey. Two braids fall down the sides of his face, clasped in ornate silver beads, the rest of his thick black hair worn in much the same style as Fili's. He can see a fair amount of grey streaks in it; though he couldn't be older than forty-five.

Bilbo feels intimidated just by standing there under his scrutinizing gaze. This is the face of a man who smiles little and laughs less. Power emanates him in waves, as potent as Dwalin, but there hangs a more… regal, commanding air about him. It renders him silent and frozen, like a frightened rabbit and he can't help but want to kick himself for that simile.

"Expecting someone?" the man rumbles and _holy cow_ it's like thunder and lightning bearing down on him all at once, sizzling through his veins and burning through his blood.

His fingers grasp and clench at his side and all he can muster is a strangled "…not really…" before lapsing back into a sort of stunned silence. Not that the man is helping- by Aule, he's just standing there, staring at Bilbo as if he could eventually burn straight through him.

For a brief moment he feels the urge to giggle hysterically; this whole thing is entirely too melodramatic for such a commonplace meeting. Then as suddenly as it came, the pressure stops; the man looks beyond him and into his home and Bilbo is able breathe again.

Now that he's not pinned to the spot he can study the man himself. He seems vaguely familiar, and the awareness scratches at the corners of his mind annoyingly for all of three seconds- right up until the point where the man grumbles out to him "Is Fili and Kili here?"

Bilbo blinks at him dumbly. Well that would explain it; relative of the boys then. Father maybe, or uncle or something. An awkward silence is prevented by said relatives walking down the hall- curious to know who the new door-knocker is.

"Uncle!" Kili exclaims exuberantly from down the hall. Bilbo turns and steps out of the way just in time to avoid the flying blur of dark hair launching itself at the stranger. Fili follows at a more sedate pace, grinning broadly.

"Enough of that, you only saw me this morning," their Uncle scowls, though it seems as though his eyes looks a little less serious to Bilbo, who watches their interaction feeling very much like a bystander.

"What brings you here Uncle?" asks Fili after his brother has been removed from the tall man's person. He glares at the boys with eyes that glitter like sapphires in the dim light.

"Fetching you two. Who seem to have forgotten that it's a Saturday night."

Fili and Kili visibly pale.

"Ah shit," whispers Kili, before crying out as his Uncle cuffs him over the head.

"Enough of that. I'll not have the pair of you mouthing off like a pair of guttersnipes."

Kili spins back to Bilbo, rubbing at his head as he does so, "We may have forgotten that we've got work at the Dwarf on Saturday nights," He says sheepishly, "by Mahal, Ma is going to _slaughter _us! Crap crap crap crap _crap!_" the brothers run down the path in a panic, then remember their manners and turn around, giving Bilbo a pleading look.

"Sorry Bilbo!" cries Fili.

"We would have liked to have stayed longer!" says Kili

"But we were supposed to be at work an hour ago and Ma is gonna kill us!"

"Thanks for feeding us though!"

Bilbo smiles, and waves them away, "Anytime you two. Feel free to come back whenever! Now go, you've got a job to be at."

The brothers smile gratefully, nod once and turn around, sprinting away from his house. He laughs through his nose when he hears the strained "Shit we are so dead!" from Kili as they run down the street.

They stand awkwardly at the doorway- one on either side- both pretending to be watching the boys run away, even though they're no longer visible. Eventually, the man turns back to Bilbo, looking for all the world as if he were entirely uninterested in holding any form of conversation with him. Irregardless, he does in fact start talking.

"Bilbo Baggins, I presume."

Bilbo purses his lips, only slightly unhappy (after all, it wasn't as if Fili and Kili hadn't been shouting his name liberally only moments before), "It would seem that everyone knows my name, and yet I know no one." The man looks at him for a moment, head tilted slightly to the right (similar to the way Kili studies things, but more composed and self-conscious, as though he'd been trying to quell the behavior) before sighing.

"Yes, well small towns tend to do that. Thorin Oakenshield." He puts out his hand and Bilbo shakes it. It positively engulfs his own; warm and rough and firm, studded with several thick rings. The hands of a working man, though his rings would suggest moreso a man with status, Bilbo notes as he lets go.

He offers Thorin a smile, "A pleasure to meet you Mister Oakenshield."

Thorin's mouth seems a little less grim. Bilbo takes that as a promising sign.

"So," begins Thorin, and oh Aule he knows exactly what's going to come out of his mouth next, "Word is you're a doctor."

_Bingo_. The muscle below Bilbo's right eye visibly twitches.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself; something tells him that he doesn't want to lose him temper in front of the foreboding Thorin. Perhaps it's because he's Fili and Kili's Uncle. Or maybe it's just the authority and power exuding from his every pore. Then he remembers Thorin's exact wording, and offers him a strained smile.

"Yes, I was a Doctor."

"Was?" Thorin's eyes turn sharp.

"Was. But certain events have left me-" he pauses, looking for the right phrasing, "…unwilling to continue practicing."

Thorin remains quiet for a moment, his gaze merciless. "I see," is all he says as the silence stretches out. Bilbo can't help but feel like the man's been judging him this whole time, and he's only just now deemed him wanting. He wants to shrink away and hide in his house, shielded from those steely eyes.

The silence stretches, warps and turns tacky to the touch. Bilbo finds that he has nothing to say- the pause sticks to his skin and clogs up his tongue. Finally, mercifully, Thorin breaks it.

"Very well," he grumbles, answering some unspoken question of his own perhaps. He nods at Bilbo, "I expect we'll be seeing a lot more of you _Mister_ _Baggins_."

If Bilbo didn't know any better, he'd call that emphasis on the Mister Baggins a sneer, but Thorin's face remains stonily impassive.

He takes a step away from the door, far enough away that the light from his hallway can't reach and it casts his face in shadow, "Goodbye, Mister Baggins."

"Goodnight." His voice sounds small and tinny to his ears. The taller man nods again and turns away; walks down his garden path as if he'd passed through it a thousand times, like it wasn't full of snags and brambles ready to trip him up.

Bilbo chooses not to watch him pass through his gate and closes the front door with hands that are curiously shaking. He walks back into his kitchen in somewhat of a daze, not entirely sure of what just happened. His good mood that a day outside in good company had wrought is shattered, leaving behind a growing depression that eats away at the corners of his mind and the steadily sinking feeling that some sort of test had just been thrown at him and he had somehow grievously failed.

* * *

A/N: so it feels sort of like this chapter was partly prophetic, because the note about a dead cat was written a week ago, and this afternoon I got a call from my Father telling me that my own cat had just died. Which is awful because she'd been my Christmas present when I was ten, and our other cat had only just died six months previously. So yay.

Enough sobbing, hope you enjoyed.


	9. Chapter 9: Black Cats and Dark Cellars

Chapter Eight: Black Cats and Dark Cellars

* * *

_Broken ears hear disbelieving words;_

_Shocked eyes watch men walk slowly away._

_The wall feels hard and cold at his back. _

* * *

Bilbo Baggins liked to think that he was a good man.

He paid his taxes on time**, **gave regularly to charitiesand- on more than one occasion (prior to his move to Erebor)- fed and housed complete strangers with absolutely no expectation of a reward or thanks. It was in his nature to be pleasant; he detested conflict and had always found _considerably_ more pleasure in being civil; but on the rare occasion (and he means the _very _ rare) that merited such, he reacted with a ferocity and stubborness that could shock even the closest of his companions. He could be generous to a fault and found great joy in feeding his friends and family. He gossiped, but took everything he heard with a grain of salt and _never_ would he spread a rumor about anyone- malicious or otherwise. He liked to think that petty cruelty was below him.

But along with his knowledge of his good qualities, he was also aware of his faults. Because Bilbo Baggins was a boring man- he knew that much at least and he couldn't say it was going to keep him up at night. He was uninterested in travelling and even less so in adventures. He preferred to do things by the book, in a world free of surprises and suspense. And he was okay with this; he was safe inside his carefully constructed shell and he could live with that.

Of course, given his nature, he did- on numerous occasions- wonder how he had ever become friends with a woman such as Anaya. She was a shameless extrovert with a penchants for bright clothes and was what some would call an outright eccentric. She said and did what she wanted; bugger the consequences. And yet despite all this Bilbo could easily say she was his closest friend- had been for years.

But irregardless of their friendship, Bilbo's nature was still inherently dull- even if he had agreed to this plan to uproot himself for a new town- and it was because of this that he found himself seriously pondering his sanity as he stood in front of the reopened trapdoor to his cellar, lighter clasped tightly in his hand, Wraith sitting uneasily at his feet.

It was only about 8 at night- the night was still young, as Anaya would say- and Bilbo was dog tired, but he had suddenly recalled, as he lowered himself into his chair in front of the television the heavy looking leather bound book hiding beneath the sheets of paper and was suddenly filled with the strongest urge to find it and bring it back up into the light.

And thus here he was, standing nervously at the lip of the cellar- which had been considerably easier to open single-handedly than the boys had made it seem- biting at his lower lip in apprehension as he dredged up the courage to take the first step down into darkness. Like this morning, the light in his kitchen only penetrates down the first few steps before dimming and surrendering to black. He wishes he had more company than just the cat.

As if reading his mind, Wraith lets out a loud "Mrrow!" and butts at his pant leg. With an unhappy swish of his tail he ventures forth down the first step. He turns to look at Bilbo with his impassive green eyes.

Bilbo sighs in resignation, "Yes alright fine. It's not as if there are monsters or anything down there I suppose."

Wraith blinks at him and waits for Bilbo to join him on the stair. With a final scrunch of his eyes and a deep breath he does, then the next step, then the next and so on and so forth until the darkness envelops him and he is forced to light his zippo. Wraith is just a soft glint at his feet, his black fur blending in almost seamlessly with the stygian darkness of the cellar.

When he reaches the bottom he stops to collect himself. The distance from himself to the light from his kitchen is only five meters, maybe less, but it feels like an age. He looks around himself with a heavy sense of unease.

During the day, the room had just felt old, abandoned- not much different from the rest of the house. But now- alone but for the feeble light of his zippo and the blurry shape of the cat- the darkness felt heady, oppressive and decidedly creepy. The dust played through the wavering flame and the sounds of his breathing seemed almost… muffled.

A shiver ran down his spine as he took a step forward, his lighter illuminating the ancient jars with their pickled contents. The long-since rotted condiments almost looked like the curious specimens preserved in formaldehyde found in museums and freak-shows in the gloom. For a moment he stood, hypnotized by the shapes in the jars, scarcely daring to breathe. It didn't take much to imagine the twisted bodies of fetuses and organs they'd shown in med school, utterly fascinating for all their macabre.

Wraith rubs up against Bilbo's leg and he jumps violently, "Niaoow," he tells him seriously. Bilbo takes at final glace at the square of light at the top of the stairs before turning towards his destination- or what he thinks is the general direction of the desk. Five tentative paces forward and he can the see the general, dim shape of the messy bureau, slightly off to the left. Another step closer and Wraith jumps up onto the desk, miraculously missing most of the paper strewn across the surface and only knocking off one dusty fountain pen.

When he reaches the desk, the lighter is burning uncomfortably hot to his fingers. He lets it go and the darkness is instantaneous. Wraith complains at him with a disgruntled "Iaioo" and he hurriedly switches hands, fumbling at the catch for a moment in the stillness of the room. He lets out a sigh of relief when it lights again, illuminating his immediate area. The temporary blindness was disorientating and disconcerting- not something he'd like to repeat any time soon.

Wraith looks at him reproachfully and turns around, walking carefully over the aged sheets of paper, scribblings of ink tuning brown and yellow in places. Bilbo gathers up the paper with his free hand, settling them in a pile on the edge of the desk. There is more paper than he realized though and by the time he collects it all- as hurriedly as he can- he has switched hands with the lighter twice, each time followed by the immediate fall of stygian black that catches in his heart uncomfortably every time.

But finally the book is free, its carelessly strewn covering sitting neatly beside it. It's a struggle to pick up the heavy tome with one hand but he manages and he tucks it safely under his arm. Determined to take the loose sheets too, he lets go of the lighter and switches hands again, mindful to keep the flame away from his precious load.

When the light flares up again, he shrieks in fright, jumping away from the desk and dropping the lighter. It clatters to the floor; the sound seems oddly muffled in the blackness.

"Mrrow?" Wraith calls questioningly to him. Bilbo curses, clutching at his chest. He can feel his heart beating madly beneath the skin.

He curses loudly again and sinks to the ground on his knees, scrabbling for the lighter with his one free hand. It doesn't take long for him to give up on the venture- likely the zippo's been kicked underneath the shelves- or maybe the desk- and he doesn't want to linger in this stifling darkness. Not with his pulse screaming in his ears and breath gasping in his chest.

Blindly he reaches out, crawling in the vague direction he thought the wall leading to the stair was. He panicked for a brief, terrifying moment when he couldn't immediately reach the cool stone, fearing he was in the wrong direction and would never find his way to the stairs. Then reason took over and told him quite firmly that he probably just wasn't close enough to the wall. Sure enough, another awkward shuffle forward on his knees and his stretching hand made contact, brushing against finely hewn bedrock.

It's only then that he realizes why the room is suddenly so disturbing. At some point- somewhere between his last nervous glance at the trapdoor and the loss of his zippo, the light in his kitchen had gone out- pitching both rooms into complete darkness.

Inwardly he begins to panic again.

This was just supposed to be a simple retrieval of some unknown tome in the corner of his cellar. And now here he was; with no light and only the slightest clue of where his exit was.

He should have just brought a candle.

He let out a shuddering breath, determined not to lose his cool (any more than he already had). He picks himself up- hand firmly placed against the wall- and takes some careful, slow steps, following the wall in the general direction of the stairs.

He almost cries when his foot bumps against the bottom step.

Desperate to get out now as he suddenly remembers the twisted shapes of preserved fruit in their ancient jars, he takes the stairs as quickly as he dares. He only stumbles once; the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat enough of a deterrent to stop him from going any faster.

Finally, mercifully, he escapes the confines of the cellar. His kitchen is dark, but it's not the suffocating blackness of the hidden room. He can still see the lingering brightness from the fallen sun through the window, though admittedly it's partially obscured by the black shapes of his garden and the surrounding forest. Bilbo takes comfort in the sight.

Bilbo sets the book gingerly down on the bench-top and fills himself a glass of water straight from the tap. His hands shake ever so slightly; the water tastes cool and metallic in his mouth.

He is determined to not look at the gaping hole of nothingness in the middle of his kitchen floor. The retrieval of his lighter and the remaining sheets of paper are a task for a brighter time, when the monsters of the night aren't there grasping at the edges of his mind. He beats a dignified retreat back to his bedroom with the book, not bothering to do anything about the broken light- though he does double check to see if it's broken with a few flicks of the yellowed plastic light-switch.

Wraith follows him through the house but doesn't venture into his room. Bilbo ignores him- all but collapses on his bed; still holding the book. He closes his eyes, relishing the pinky-black nothingness beneath his eye-lids- so very comforting and so very different from the Cimmerian light of his cellar.

He stays like that for a time, collecting himself and letting his heart rate sink back to normal. Stubby fingers absently caress at the leather-bound tome. It's warm in his hands, smooth to the touch but for the gold embossing along its borders. In the left hand corner he can feel a deep divet, like it's been dropped on a sharp corner at some point.

It was only once his heart rate had settled that he allowed himself to think on what had happened down in his basement. It had been dark, sure- unnervingly so- and especially creepy when he had to change hands with the lighter, but not enough to freak him out so suddenly.

And of course, imagine the luck; for not only his lighter to go out, but for the dated kitchen fluro to suddenly die at exactly the same time, pitching him in such disorientating and absolute night… Sure, that certainly could have been enough to give him a fright, but not like that- never like that. No… he'd seen something. Something random enough, and disturbing enough to make him cry out and lose his precious light source.

Something that made him feel distinctly unwelcome in the little room beneath his home.

As he thinks back on his little 'scare', the image comes back to him in vivid detail. It's enough to make him sit back up and for his heart to feel strangled in his chest all over again. He screws his eyes shut and the vision returns, burning itself into the back of his eye-lids.

For a moment, in the immediate instant after the light had flared up, he could have sworn he'd seen- superimposed of the face of his cat- the twisted image of some kind of creature; its eyes a poisonous yellow in sunken sockets, flesh a melted and mottled grey, teeth glistening, bared in a silent, sinister snarl.

Bilbo lets out a shuddering breath. Wraith still sits, watching him, from his hallway; he eyes the cat with wary eyes, clutching at the book with frozen hands.

"Probably just the flames bleaching my eyes, right?" he whispers into the silence.

Wraith just winks at him from the bedroom doorway and offers him an innocent "Mrrow."

* * *

Okay, so a little shorter than I'd liked it to have been, but it just felt like the right place to cut the chapter off at. And there are probably parts of this chapter that are writing in a confusing manner so sorry if it annoys you; I'll come back to it at a later date.  
Also, for those that may have clued on- I am aware that zippo lighters do not work in the same way that I've said they do in here, but oh well.

Reviews feed my writers ego and fuel my heart!


	10. Chapter 10: Old Books & Ancient Caverns

Okay so yes, not gonna lie, it has been a while. This story hasn't been abandoned, and I hadn't lost inspiration or anything heart breaking like that. It was more so that I just moved and Uni just started up again, so I haven't exactly been time rich as of late. I've been working on this little doozy for the past six weeks- it's my longest chapter so far, so there you go :P But I've finally finished the bastard and now I can move onto the next chapter, so yay.

enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Nine:** Old Books and Ancient Caverns

* * *

_Daytime visits with deadpan nurses._

_Rotting casseroles left on counters._

_Sunken eyes stare into empty mirrors._

* * *

Bilbo stares unseeing into the shadow beneath his dresser- from where he sits on the side of his bed it's the closest thing his eyes fall upon. The stretch of muscles from shoulder to shoulder aches uncomfortably from his slouched position, but he can't find it in himself to move.

His eyes burn and water, but he can't bring himself to blink. When he blinks, the image that sits unpleasantly in the back of his mind comes to the forefront, as if it were burnt into the insides of his eyelids. Wraith comes to sit beside him at some point- his weight is a comforting warmth but little else.

He can't really get his head around what he's seen… if he'd seen anything at all really. It was shocking; beyond unnerving. But he couldn't even be sure if what he'd seen had been a projection of his subconscious thanks to his nervousness or a deluded imagining of the imprint of the light on his eyes between changes. He refused to even _contemplate _the possibility that what he'd seen had been somehow _real_.

Because… well… _surely not. _

It was a ludicrous concept to even _think _about. This was the twenty-first century. Notions of the supernatural had long since been driven out by the stolid, ever encroaching and all-consuming walls of reason.

Even so…

It had felt real. The wild and painful thrumming in his chest had calmed down by now, but that heart-stopping, gut-wrenching fright upon seeing the visage superimposed over his cat- and the subsequent, futile fumbling on the ground for his blasted light had been real enough. And sure, he'd always been one to scare easily (he'd had to walk out of that Doctor Who episode with those damn angels) but he liked to think that he was a rational man. He did not believe in the fantastic; had long ago discounted theories of fey and ghosts and the afterlife as the mad ramblings of the desperate. There was life in all its logical (yet simultaneously mind-blowing) wonders of the here and now. Nothing more, nothing less.

Not that such reassurances were going to stop him from avoiding that cellar like the plague from now on. In the dark, on his own, the atmosphere of the little room completely changed. It had felt eerie, almost hostile. Not an experience he'd like to repeat.

Huffing out a frustrated sigh he flops backwards on his bed. The sudden, solid weight on his chest reminds him that he's still clutching at the book he'd specifically gone to retrieve. With another sigh he pushes himself up again, groaning as his aching muscles from his days of work protest. Resolutely- with only the briefest of caresses to the worn green leather- he opens the book, unsure as to what he'll find inside.

It's almost disappointingly ordinary.

The first page is almost blank, but for a pair of scrawled words at the bottom of the page. Regrettably, the ink had gotten wet at some stage and try as he might, he can't manage to read the smudged script. Disheartened slightly, he turns the page. The paper is of the rich and luxuriantly smooth kind that feels like heaven to his fingers and he can tell why the tome weighed a ton now. Its corners are dog-eared and ragged. These pages bear more of a yield than the previous and he reads the careful, loopy handwriting greedily.

_An Account of the Flora of Erebor and their Various Uses _says the top of the page. The title has been underlined with ink that Bilbo guesses was once red but has now faded to a sickly brown colour that reminds him uncomfortably of blood. Underneath is their author's attempt at a table of contents, written as carefully as the book's title but it appears (from the size of the book) that after about the thirtieth entry they clearly gave up. The first few headings are all quite standard; lavender, camomile, mint and sage being amongst the most common. As the list goes on however he begins to see some more… interesting plants making an appearance- including mugwort, hemlock and nightshade.

Intrigued, he flips over to the next page. An intricate, beautifully detailed diagram of the common aromatic lavender almost seems to burst from the paper. The author- clearly the beneficiary of some serious artistic talent- had lightly coloured the drawing in with watercolours and the soft purple hues had barely faded. Surrounding the diagram are a multitude of writings; descriptions of where it is to be found, seasonality, variances of appearance and a detailed directory of its uses.

Slightly awed, Bilbo traces a finger over the curly writing. It's an incredible find. The next page (camomile) is as intricately illustrated as the last, and the information around it even more so. Its presence in a museum or library would be a priceless addition, he thinks, and it had been hiding in some forgotten corner of his creepy old cellar for Aule knows how long.

Fascinated, he reads on.

* * *

The day was uncharacteristically hot. It bore down with fierce intensity, stinging in eyes and burning through skin.

In contrast to the almost unbearable heat, the axe is cool and smooth in his hands. It slides through his top hand pleasingly and shudders with a satisfying _thunk_ into the wood. It splits cleanly in two, each half falling neatly on either side of the chopping block.

He wipes the stinging sweat from his eyes. The heat makes it uncomfortable to work in; it feels like a sauna- sluggish and humid and _hot_. He has to push away the unrealistic sense of claustrophobia as the warmth presses in on all sides, squeezing the breath from him like the death grip of a python.

The work is unpleasant, but necessary. It will be a miserable winter this year- his mother can tell. She can always tell- _feels it in her bones_ she says, and after year after year of accurate predictions there is no disbelief now. And his brother is no use; head in the clouds that boy. Thin as a rake and the muscles to match. Took too much after their mother, bless her soul.

He chops for what seems like hours; after a time the mindless action of bringing the heavy axe down on wood becomes cathartic. All he thinks of is the laboured push and pull of his breathing, the slide of polished wood through hands and the smooth _shtunk_ as it slams through wood into the block below. _Physical meditation_ his brother calls it. _Work_ he calls it.

The sound of crunching feet on gravel interrupts his steady work and he sets the axe down carefully- its rippled surface glints and almost blinds him before he looks up and smiles.

His mother carries two glasses of tea, icy and sweet. The condensation drips through her fingers and down her wrists. How she managed to get them so cool is beyond him but he gratefully accepts the drink anyway. She places the glass into his outstretched hand and carelessly brushes chips and splinters of wood from the block to perch gracefully in their place.

She doesn't smile back.

"Your brother is missing." Her voice is uncharacteristically serious.

He sips appreciatively at the drink- it's already warming up in the horrendous heat- and nods back at her sagely. His brother is always missing; gallivanting about in the forest doing Mahal knows what.

"You won't think it so until tonight, but I thought I should let you know." She continues calmly, staring off at the mountain that their town sits beneath. She's right of course- he's not taking the news seriously. His younger sibling is as otherworldly as their mother- interested in higher things than a good beer and a better fuck like the rest of the men in town. Forever wandering off into the forest or climbing the Lonely Mountain. Skipping meals and coming home covered in scratches, clutching at his precious book- his _compendium_.

His mother stands suddenly as their contemplative silence stretches on. He watches her walk back to the house, sipping occasionally at his drink.

When he turns back around, he finds that she's left her own glass of tea on the chopping block.

The day passes much the same- cutting wood, weeding the garden and clearing the paths in the aggressive heat. Every hour she walks out, glass in hand or holding a tray of food for him and tells him that his brother is still missing. He nods and thanks her for the food or tea, she stares off at the mountain and then wanders back inside.

Come dinner time, his useless brother sure enough fails to return home.

His mother doesn't put out a plate for him at supper.

At this he frowns. She always leaves a plate of food out for him, no matter how late he arrives home, blonde hair full of leaves and twigs. _Always_; no matter what.

"When did you first say he was missing?" he asks her as she calmly eats her meal, not bothering to wait for himself.

"This morning."

"Right…" he frowns harder at his plate, "And what kind of missing _was _he exactly?"

"The permanent kind."

The blood begins to cool in his veins. He sets his cutlery down with a soft _clink_.

"Mother, are you saying he's gone? _Actually_ missing? As in, the he's not-coming-back-he's-disappeared-under-mysterious- and-sinister-circumstances kind of missing?"

She bites her lip, starting to look upset at his tone of voice.

"I tried to tell you. I knew you wouldn't listen!"

"Only 'cause you were so nonchalant about the whole thing! By Mahal mother! You could at least act a bit more concerned about this! If you knew he was missing, _actually missing_ you could have tried to treat it more seriously!" he's pacing the kitchen now in frustration.

She looks up at him, eyes flashing. It was the most lucid he's seen her be in what feels like forever.

" I knew you would go and find him!" she snarls, he's momentarily taken aback at the venom in her voice, before he resumes his pacing, " You'll find him and bring him back and everything will be alright."

He shakes his head in disgust and storms off into his brother's room. It's as cluttered as always, newspaper clippings pinned to the walls and dried flowers and leaves hanging from the window. His desk is strewn with paper and books, covered in rough scribblings and notes. A well-used paint pot sits in a corner. A small travel palette of watercolours lies next to it.

He sighs in frustration, sitting down on the bed; the frame squeaks softly in retaliation. When he looks up, his mother is standing at the door.

She's grasping his brother's book.

He swallows back the urge to scream. There is something seriously, blood-chillingly wrong with this scene, "He left his book here?" he murmurs.

"Yes."

Just as his mother always left food on the table for him, no matter the time he came home, never would his brother leave home without that book. _Never._ Silently, he stretches out his arm to take it- she complies with the unsaid request. Its heavy- he briefly wonders how his brother managed to stay so weak when he was carrying this thing around with him all the time. The thought is tossed away quickly and replaced with more pressing matters.

"Where was he this morning?"

"He's in the mountain." She doesn't even bother answering his questions. Her eyes look oddly cloudy in the dim light of dusk.

"How? Why? And why didn't he go there with his book?"

She shrugs, "He's in the mountain. That's all I know." He swallows back the urge to scream and shout and throw something at her.

"How do you even know that?"

She just stares at him. He gets the point; it's one of _those _things. Her little sparks of insight. Some things, things no one was supposed to know about, she just _knew_. Like they came to her from nowhere.

"Right." He stands up, squeezing past her to grab his coat from his own room. It smells of coal and wood-smoke from his last camping trip. He slips on his heavy steel-capped boots at the back of the house (to walk through the house with them is akin to sacrilege) and takes the lantern off its hook, pocketing the matches.

"The old mine." She says from the bedroom door. He closes his eyes, hand clenching at the back door frame to compose himself. The old mine was abandoned almost a century ago after they'd become too unstable. The miners of Erebor had persisted at the ancient shafts long after they'd given up their profit; mostly thanks to its parting gift- the Arkenstone, pride of Erebor.

They were empty now; empty and dangerous. Abandoned for newer sites and forgotten by most, they were left to fall into disrepair. Collapses were apparently common, according to the occasional teen who dared to venture into its dark recesses, and the wooden support structures- those that remained- were mostly splintered and rotten wrecks.

And of course his brother was missing in the old mine. It was one of the few places in Erebor that he was not familiar with and by far the most dangerous. Knowing his brother, he'd gone and gotten himself trapped in some old cavern.

If he was lucky.

He prays fervently, as he walks down the garden path to the small gate in their fence, that the boy wasn't entombed in some fall of ancient rock.

It's only when he reaches the gate that he remembers the talks and rumours of people going missing from Ered Mithrin. Dark whispers had reached the town months ago that men, women and children- even entire families- had vanished from the string of mining settlements spread throughout the mountains. There had been no clues, no explanations; no signs of a desire to leave. Only crumpled sheets and jobs left unfinished.

Grimly he walks back to the house to fetch his gun. It's a long shot, and he doubts such sinister happenings could reach so far, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. On impulse, he grabs the axe from the garden shed too and tucks it through his belt.

His mother is holding out their bicycle to him when he returns. Her doe eyes are solemn, pink lips downturned.

"Follow the cat." She whispers to him, and a shiver of movement makes him look down. Cinder brushes up against the woman's soft skirts and softly butts at his own legs.

He gives his mother his most unimpressed look. She seems unfazed.

"What am I supposed to do with the cat?" he asks when no answer to his unspoken query is provided. Cinder looks up at him reproachfully with eyes like the forest in spring.

"He knows the way better than you do." Is all the guidance she offers before swirling around, fabric rustling softly and walking back into the house. "Find my boy." She calls behind her to him, barely sparing him a second glance.

He stares at the back of her head balefully, and then back down to the cat. Cinder looks about as unimpressed as he feels. With a disdainful twitch of his whiskers- he'd never much seemed to like him- the feline takes off through the back gate, white-tipped tail swaying in an almost jaunty manner. Heaving a sigh; pushing down the steadily growing feelings of apprehension and fear, he grips tighter at the lantern and follows.

* * *

His mother was right; the cat did know the way to the old mines better than he. He's not sure if he should feel insulted or unnerved by that fact. In the end he settles for both.

The entrance to the mines is a remarkably non-descript hole in the side of the mountain. Over the years, its not-so-well-used path had been overgrown or eroded away, making the trip noticeably harder than he imagines it would have originally been. When finally they do reach the entrance- partly covered with brambles and a sickly-looking yew tree- the dusky throes of sunset are only a faint line of vermillion on the horizon (or what he can see of the horizon at least). The darkness is peaceful- the forest eerily silent.

Cinder sits patiently waiting for him atop a boulder, not far from the entrance. His tail curls around feet, the twitching white tip of his tail the only evidence of his agitation. When he reaches the rock himself, the cat jumps down, brushing up against his leg and walks into the gloom of the mine. He moves to follow, then stops. Green eyes reflect the light of the lantern back at him, two pools of iridescence.

_Hurry Up_, he seems to say, unimpressed by his hesitation,_ I have better things to do with my time_.

Steeling himself, he steps gingerly through the threshold. The ground is littered with rocks and leaves and the remnants of overambitious brambles. Cinder huffs approvingly and turns around, prowling onwards without bothering to check to see if he was following.

Inside, the sight almost takes his breath away. This is nothing, _nothing_ like the old stories his father told him.

He stands on a wide, rocky ledge that feels slanted, following along on either side of the portal. Beyond that is darkness- absolute and heart-stopping in its purity. He stands at the precipice of a massive chasm that spreads so far that his lantern has no hope of ever reaching the other side. Once, he thinks to himself, this must have been solid rock, mined away through the centuries.

There are stumps of wood connected by ancient chains that fence off the chasm- the dry, aged wood the only defence between him and that terrifying darkness. The ledge slants down to his right, the left is at a slight incline, like a giant inverted thread on a screw.

He can tell without being dumb enough to move any further forwards that the shaft must extend hundreds of meters vertically in both directions. He wonders- more than awestruck at the sheet magnitude- how _any_ of this could ever be structurally sound. Surely the side of the mountain should have caved in years ago.

And how did more people not know about this? From all the stories he'd heard, the mine was less a great abscess within the mountain and more a maze of narrow, interconnected tunnels. But this… this was beyond belief. Beyond words. Such a thing just _was_; it should have lent itself a certain amount of infamy within the town. It shouldn't have been a landmark to be forgotten so easily; reduced to the rumourings of a place for degenerate teens to meet and get drunk.

"Mrrow!" he jumps at the noise; shockingly loud in the darkness. It feels almost sacrilegious to make noise in the face of such feats of engineering and history- like between the towering shelves of the library. Cinder gives him a pointed look at turns around to the right. _Going down_.

He follows the cat, apprehension in every footstep. He tries to avoid the ledge with its ancient posts and blackened chains as much as is possible, but in places the ground has eroded and the guard has fallen away. The path becomes narrower here and he has to steel himself a number of times in the face of that great nothingness that no light seems to penetrate.

This is horror, pure and simple, and he can't help but curse his brother for being down here. What could have possibly tempted him to regularly trek this ancient monument? There is malice in this mine. He can feel it as surely as his mother feels the seasons in her bones.

And yet, through all his inner turmoils, Cinder carries on unaffected, so perhaps it is just him, just his mind that observes some unimaginable evil; testing, lying in wait for his arrival. A number of times the cat has to wait for him to gather himself up, clutching at the pieces that threaten to fall away, for the impending screams to be quelled. He regains his composure time and time again, with each attempt seeming to be harder than the last.

Deeper they go, deeper into the great cyst in their mountain. In here the silence is pure. His footsteps seem louder; they eat away at his sanity, as sure and as sharp as any mining pick. The way is littered with rocks and shafts that seep with cold. Sometime he comes across old carts still filled with rubble and ore. Lifts and pulley systems are spread along at intermitted spaces that rise above him like great metal vines.

As they delve onwards, the temperature drops rapidly; if the air wasn't so dry his breath would turn to fog he'd imagine. But the air is earthy and dry and burns his sinuses every time he breaths in too deeply. The slight warmth of the lantern is his only comfort, and his is infinitely grateful that he'd thought to bring his coat.

Suddenly Cinder stops, tail twitching angrily. He looks back at him, the hair slowly rising on the animal's back and tail.

Then he hears it.

Faintly, softly, there comes to him he sound of scraping and shuffling. Of stones pushed away as something moves low to the ground.

He stands stock still, unable or unwilling to move. All of his senses feel hyper-aware; his eyes pick out nonsensical shapes in the darkness, his breathing sounds as loud as a landslide and his icy fingers tingle painfully. He manages to summon the courage to call out.

"Brother?" his voice seems agonizingly soft in the black.

The shuffling stops. He starts to hear a wheezing, as though something were breathing through liquid.

"Brother?" he calls out again, feeling concerned now. What if he'd hurt himself? Was wounded, crawling blind through this damned darkness, the blood slowly filling his lungs? He forces himself to take a step forward.

Cinder hisses and flees.

He curses and moves to follo-

"What is it, Preciouss?" the voice hisses, soft and sibilant and he freezes. His blood cools. Ice forms on his skin.

The voice snarls, "What is it? What does it want Precious?"

The shuffling comes closer and he can hear the scrape of nails on rock.

He takes a step backwards in terror, a hand going to the axe hanging from his belt. The snarling gets closer and he can see a shadow lumbering forwards.

He trips.

Stumbles.

The lantern falls from his hands.

And all goes black.


End file.
